Getting to Know You
by laurasmileygirl
Summary: While traveling back in time, Emma takes the opportunity to learn more about Hook by exploring his cabin. What she finds is not what she expected. Canon up until 3x21. Mostly speculation about Hook's past!
1. Chapter 1

Over the course of Emma's life so far, she'd come to realize that you could learn a lot about a person based on the place they called home.

Take Regina, for example. Her house was classy and neat to the point of unfriendliness. It fit perfectly with her rigid, hard personality and almost unchangeable opinions. In contrast, Mary Margaret's apartment was ridiculously homey; it was bright, neat but cluttered enough to feel lived-in, and rustic. It was simple and welcoming, much like she was. Then there was Mr. Gold's shop. It was cluttered, dark, and dusty. In short, sketchy. Again, a perfect match for the man who owned it.

That was why, when Emma found herself in Hook's cabin once again, she was suddenly struck with a burning curiosity. She'd been in his cabin before, of course, but things had been different then. She hadn't been as... well... interested? At the very least, she was forcing herself not to be interested. Hook was a necessary means to the end of getting Henry back, nothing more. Any curiosity about the contents of the room had been pushed aside in a stubborn refusal to admit any interest in the man, but now they were, at the very least, friends. He'd followed her into a time-travel portal, for God's sake. Surely, it was natural for her to be a little bit tempted by the opportunity to look around and learn more about the man now lying knocked out on the floor.

Her Hook - no, she meant Hook from her time, not _hers_ - was currently up on the deck. Right after he'd knocked himself out, Smee had nervously called down to him about some "visitors" who wanted to see him.

"What visitors?" Emma asked skeptically.

Hook frowned. "I've no idea. Perhaps some men seeking a place among my crew."

Emma raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

With a sigh, Killian admitted, "but more likely visitors with less friendly intentions."

"Like?" Emma demanded.

"Men wishing to challenge my position, men who have taken issue with myself or my crew at some point, some new sycophantic soldier or officer of the law hoping for glory by bringing pirates to justice," he shrugged. "You get the idea."

Emma groaned. "Seriously? How can you be so calm about this?"

"Because, love, this is far from the first time this has happened. I'll just go up and take care of it and then we can be on our way," he assured her, moving towards the ladder.

"Do you have... uh... a spare sword, or something?" Emma asked awkwardly. The words felt ridiculously strange on her tongue. Sometimes she still almost had to pinch herself to remind herself that this was, in fact, her life. Swords were almost normal at this point.

"Plenty, but they will be of little use to you down here," Killian replied firmly.

"Hey! I'm coming," Emma snapped, moving to follow him.

Killian pushed her back gently but firmly. "No, you're not. I'm sorry to tell you this Swan, but you're bloody useless with a sword-"

"I beat you!" Emma interrupted with a scoff.

Killian just raised an eyebrow at her. The silence dragged out for a few seconds as Emma studied his expression for any sign of a lie, growing increasingly irritated.

"No, you are not going to convince me that you let me win," Emma exclaimed irritably.

Killian glanced at her pityingly. "Swan, love. We don't have the luxury of time at this second, so perhaps we can leave that conversation for a later date. If my concern for your welfare isn't enough to keep you down here, then think about this; no bar-wench I brought back to the ship would be rushing up there to assist me. At the very least, you would cause Smee suspicion. Or, perhaps one of the "guests" on the ship is someone you have met or will meet in the future, and meeting him too early would cause catastrophic consequences. I'm not willing to take that risk. And, if you need yet another reason, I think Henry needs his mother back in one piece, don't you?"

Emma scowled. "I can handle myself in a fight."

Again, the eyebrow jumped up skeptically. "Be back in a few. Make yourself at home, love," Killian replied, leaving no room for argument.

Emma let out a frustrated groan, turning her anger towards the unconscious man on the floor.

"You did _not _let me win," she insisted.

His lack of response, even if it was justified since this Hook hadn't fought her yet, just made her more irritated.

And perhaps that was another reason for her sudden curiosity. If she was going to have to stay down here, at least for now, she needed something to pass the time. Invading his privacy for revenge may have been a little bit juvenile, but Emma preferred to think of it as a learning experience. Returning to the past had reminded her of something that was strangely disconcerting. She had realized to her surprise that while Hook knew many things about her past, she knew very little about his. Sure, she knew about Milah and a little bit about Gold, but other than that, the man in the tavern had been a complete mystery to her. Surely using her time in a constructive way wasn't such a bad thing, and Killian had said to make herself at home.

Emma moved towards the bed first. It was neatly made - almost hotel room standards, really - with luxurious, exotically patterned blankets and pillows. The idea of him being well-travelled was hardly news to her, so examining the bed provided little new information. Some random pirate-y things hung from hooks on the walls, but Emma found herself moving away from those things towards the books stacked above his bed. She had never really pictured Captain Hook as a fan of reading, but then maybe she shouldn't have been surprised considering his extensive vocabulary. There were books on sailing, books on science, books on medicine, books on plants, books of poetry (she hadn't been expecting that one), books filled with neat cursive that appeared to be records of the ship... his collection was extensive. Emma would have loved to read through more of them, but she wasn't sure how long she would have to explore the cabin and she wanted to get through as much as she could.

She moved to the wardrobe next, throwing it open to find many neatly hung clothes. Some of them looked like the sort of thing she had seen him wear before, but there were surprises in the wardrobe too. There was one outfit that looked like a naval uniform, which Emma took out to stare at. It looked too big to be Hook's. Could it have been his mysterious brother's? Was his brother in the navy? Or was it a souvenir from a battle, belonging to some enemy? Would Killian make his enemies strip and then walk the plank? He did have a strange sense of humour.

Emma put it back and looked at the rest of the clothing again. She felt a small twinge of something, perhaps sympathy or even some sadness of her own, to see that half of the wardrobe was still taken up by what could only be the clothes of a woman. There were dresses and there were clothes that looked more suitable to life aboard a pirate ship, but all of them looked to be about the same size. There was a great variety, as well. One dress, pushed to the back as though it was not well-loved, was fairly conservative and made of rough, cheap fabric. Others were far nicer, made of silks or prettily patterned. Then, of course, there was a certain amount of leather. Curious, Emma pulled out one of the dresses and held it up against herself. The woman who owned these had been taller than her, but that was about all she could determine. Emma put it back quickly, feeling guilty for a moment as though she was disturbing something sacred. To Killian, perhaps she was. She wondered briefly if Killian had gotten rid of anything of Milah's at all. Based on the wardrobe, she would guess not. The only question she really had was whether he kept them to preserve her memory or because getting rid of them was too painful.

Emma opened the cupboards underneath the wardrobe next, finding jewelry, shoes, small clothing items and other small things. Emma bit back a smile when she found what could only be Hook's supply of eyeliner. The bottom drawer seemed to be devoted to Milah as well. She opened it to find an ornate mirror, a brush (with long, curly hair still stuck onto it... the never-get-rid-of-anything-belonging-to-Milah theory was looking better and better), elegant hairpins, perfume, make-up, hose, gloves, paintbrushes, pencils, other assorted items... it was almost as if Killian still expected Milah to waltz through the door.

There were various treasures scattered throughout the cabin, but Emma found herself drawn towards the desk instead. Various papers covered with Hook's elegant scrawl and navigational instruments were all neatly placed on the desk or in the drawers. Emma was about to shut the desk drawer and move onto the drawers underneath the bed when something caught her eye. One paper was much older than the others, tucked underneath other papers so that it was obscured except for a single, yellowed corner. Carefully, Emma extracted the paper from the pile and stared.

A charcoal woman stared back at her. She had wild, dark curls cascading down her front and her back, high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and intelligent eyes. It looked almost as though the woman was staring right through her.

Emma knew without a doubt that she was looking at Milah. The paper was weathered, slightly torn, and creased as though it was habitually folded and carried around in a pocket. There were a couple of lighter spots on the page that looked almost like tear stains, but Emma supposed it also could have been the spray of the ocean. In fact, she hoped it was. She had trouble picturing Killian crying, but, then again, he must have. For the first time, Emma let her mind wander, wondering how many nights Killian had spent crying for this woman.

What had Killian seen in her? For him to preserve all of this stuff of hers, to brand her name on his skin, to devote his life to revenge, surely she must have been special. All Emma knew was Milah had abandoned her son, although she wasn't sure she could entirely blame her for leaving a husband like Rumplestiltskin. She had a pretty face, but surely that wouldn't inspire such devotion. What was it about her that Killian loved? Emma was suddenly burning with curiosity about the woman staring at her from the page in her hand. Her gaze had become almost mocking now, or even pitying. Perhaps it was the secrets of the woman herself that lingered beneath the page, mocking Emma with their eternal mystery. Or perhaps it was something else. Emma felt oddly as though the woman were judging her, which was ridiculous when the woman was dead and all she was holding was a ridiculous facsimile. Nevertheless, Emma felt like Milah was appraising her value and triumphing in the knowledge that she was superior to Killian's new object of affection. At the very least, Milah seemed to be triumphing over the fact that Killian loved her most and had loved her enough to give up his entire life on a mission of vengeance.

Emma slammed the picture on the desk with a bit more force than may have been necessary.

She opened a cupboard underneath Killian's bed next and found the last thing she had expected.

A violin.

It gleamed faintly in the dim light, polished and clearly well-loved. It was cradled among fabric, protected enough that it must be a prized possession. A long, elegant bow lay next to it, with one crucial difference in comparison to other violin bows: there was a hand attachment, like the one that Killian used in place of his hook, firmly attached to the bow.

So, Killian played the violin. And still played it, with one hand. That was surprising, to say the least, and maybe a little bit impressive.

Emma frowned slightly. She was certain that violin bows were held with the right hand. Did that mean that Killian played backwards? She supposed he'd had hundreds of years to master it. Suddenly, a new image popped into her mind. Suddenly, she could clearly imagine Killian playing violin in his cabin through the long nights of Neverland, drowning out the cries of the lost boys with bittersweet music that was perhaps as heartbreaking as the crying itself.

Emma closed the cupboard gently and moved to the opposite one underneath his bed. She gasped when she opened it, taking in the piles and piles of pages covered with writing.

Music. These were pages of _music_, handwritten in a familiar scrawl. Emma knew very little about the subject of composition, but she still sifted through multiple pages. Many were titled and dated, such as "Dawn - 1923" or "For Milah - 1826". They seemed to get older and older closer to the bottom of the pile. One, dated 1814, even had a letter on the back:

_Dearest Lyanna,_

_I regret that I cannot send you more than this for your birthday. As you are now six years old, I wanted to give you something befitting of a lady such as a necklace or one of those strange-smelling bottles that your mother seems to love so much. However, I'm afraid that there are very few merchants on a battlefield, so I hope this will suffice. _

_I set the poem that you loved so well when I read it to you last year to music. Perhaps your mother can sing it to you, but if she will not, I may show it to you when I return. _

_I think of you every day. Try to stay out of my uncle's way. I know that you are almost grown up, but, still, I would rather I were there to protect you. I send you as much love as I can fit onto this page,_

_Killian_

Underneath, a small reply was scrawled in a far messier print:

_Dear Killian,_

_Now that I am six I beleve my speling is much improved! My mother will not giv me paper so I decided to send you this bak. Mother says she will not sing it, but that's fine becos I'd prefer you to sing it enyway. I love it very much and now that you hav it bak, you can stedy it and giv me a perfect performence when you come home. _

_Pleese hurry. I am lonely without you. _

_Love,_

_Lyanna_

Well, now Emma knew that Killian had been involved in some sort of war, and he was close with a mystery little girl. A daughter? A sister?

Emma rifled through the papers from around that time, hoping for another mention of this mysterious Lyanna.

When she found it, she almost wished she hadn't.

It was titled "Requiescat - for Lyanna" and dated only 1817. The little girl had died when she was only eight or nine. It looked as though Killian had written both music and words:

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life's buried here,

Heap earth upon it.*

Tears burned Emma's eyes as she read it. Apparently, Killian was a damn good poet too. She shouldn't have been surprised, but there it was.

Quickly, she rifled to the bottom of the stack, hoping for a happier distraction. She wasn't disappointed.

The bottom piece of music was dated 1804 and written in a messy, young child's hand. It was called "Summer Roses - For Mama". However, in spite of the childlike writing, the content of the music itself looked complicated.

"Great," Emma muttered to herself. It would be just her luck if he ended up being some sort of child prodigy.

She placed the music back into the cupboard carefully, moving to the last unexplored area of the cabin: the drawers under the bed.

The top one contained a sketchbook. Emma opened it to find Milah's name printed neatly in the corner of the cover. Well, now she knew that Milah was an artist. Perhaps the portrait of her was by her own hand. Maybe that meant it was overly flattering? At the very least, it meant that she was vain enough to draw pictures of herself. The thought made Emma oddly satisfied.

She became more grateful to Milah as she rifled through the book, though. Mostly, it had pictures of Killian; Killian sleeping, Killian laughing and looking more carefree than Emma had ever seen, Killian at the helm of the ship...

The person most featured after Killian was a little boy, who Emma assumed must be Neal. He had been a cute child. Seeing him and remembering that he was dead hurt, sending a dull ache through her. She wondered if Neal had ever known how much Milah had loved him; she must have loved him very much to draw him so often. Emma felt a strange sense of - perhaps grudging - camaraderie with the woman, if only because she could relate to a mother's love.

Emma carefully placed the sketchbook back into the drawer, almost wishing that she could take it with her.

The next drawer held an assortment of portraits and papers. The top one immediately caught Emma's eye. A thin woman with dark, gently curled hair and striking, sharp features smiled happily from a small, painted portrait. She was a beautiful woman, with her black hair contrasting starkly against her pale skin. Most striking of all were her eyes, which were bright blue like a tropical ocean. She was all angles, with sharp cheekbones and sharp dimples, but a certain kindness seemed to bleed through underneath. She looked positively elegant in a long white wedding gown. Beside her, a tall, muscled man with a strong jaw and wavy light brown hair smiled seriously up at her. His eyes were grey-blue, and everything about him looked serious. Underneath, the pair were identified as "Christine and Edward Jones, 1794", but Emma didn't even need to read it to know that she was looking at Killian's parents. Killian was almost the spitting image of his mother.

Emma looked through each picture carefully, identifying different family members of Killian's. She found Liam, who looked more like his father than his mother. She also found Lyanna, although her picture was only a rough sketch. Nonetheless, the artist captured the little girl well enough that Emma felt herself mourning her, which was ridiculous when she was a stranger who had been dead for almost two hundred years.

She was so wrapped up in looking at the pictures that she didn't hear Killian come back down the ladder.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, more in surprise than in anger.

Emma jumped, almost dropping the sketch.

"You said to make myself at home," she bit back defensively.

Killian carefully stepped over his unconscious self and moved towards her, face expressionless.

"Who was she?" Emma asked softly when he was close enough to clearly see the sketch of Lyanna.

Killian frowned, taking the picture from her with a slightly trembling hand.

"No one that would concern you," he finally said, voice tight, placing the picture back in the drawer with the others and closing it abruptly. "We should get going, Swan."

Emma opened her mouth to argue, but Killian was already leaving, anger and sadness radiating through the tenseness of his body.

With a last look around the cabin, feeling as though she couldn't look at it in the same way anymore, she followed her companion. Somehow, she couldn't help but feel as though her exploration had left her with more questions than answers.

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><p>*Just a note: This beautiful poem is actually by Oscar Wilde. I borrowed it because it seemed appropriate and it's frankly a gorgeous poem that should be shared with everyone.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

I forgot to mention this last time, but obviously I don't own OUAT or anything that you may recognize.

Sorry if this chapter has any glaring errors; I wanted to get it up quickly because I know how much I hate waiting for people to update! Being fairly fast meant that I didn't edit hugely carefully, so feel free to point out anything that you have a problem with (or like). Thanks for reading!

I rated the story a bit higher after this chapter just for a few mild curse words and a suggestive comment. There's nothing explicit, though, and the rating is really just to be careful!

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><p>"Let's stop here, shall we?" Killian suggested tonelessly.<p>

Emma scowled at the man as he moved next to the trunk of a particularly large tree. Part of her was relieved to stop. It had a been a long day and trudging through the woods for the past few hours after leaving Killian's ship had her feeling dead on her feet. Hook didn't say so, but Emma sensed that he was feeling the same way from his increasingly slower pace throughout the trek. To make matters worse, it had started raining about an hour ago and she was now soaked to the skin. She hadn't even had any conversation to distract her. Ever since catching her with his belongings, Killian had barely said a word. What he did say was said tightly, lacking his usual good humour. While Emma had initially wondered if he was just upset at the reminders from his past, she was now fairly certain that he was angry with her. Well, he was welcome to be angry. She'd just be angry right back.

Moving towards him without a word, Emma took off her sopping cloak and wrung out her hair, resolutely avoiding Killian's eyes.

"I'll take the first watch," Killian offered tiredly.

"Fine," Emma bit back, laying down on the mossy, damp forest floor and trying to ignore the raindrops leaking through the canopy of leaves over her head onto her face. The roots poking into her back weren't particularly comfortable either.

Emma felt Killian's eyes on her. "You're going to be cold without your cloak, Swan," Killian said after a moment.

"It's soaking wet," Emma snapped.

The pirate didn't reply, clearly deciding that this was not an argument he wanted to have at the moment. Instead, he sighed and moved to the edge of the relatively sheltered area under the tree and sat as still as a statue, staring into the darkness.

Once he was still, Emma huddled further into herself, attempting to hold back shivers and calm her breathing enough to slip into sleep. God knows that she was tired enough. However, what with the discomfort and thoughts of everything that could go wrong with their plan to return to the present, sleep was frustratingly elusive.

Ten minutes with increasingly violent shivering passed.

"Swan?" Hook called softly.

Emma just scowled and buried her face in her arm.

Suddenly, Killian began to shift around. Emma heard a hiss of pain and a quiet curse, and then suddenly something warm and heavy was draped over her. Before she could respond, Hook had moved back to his previous position, now holding his knees to his chest for warmth.

Emma opened her mouth to protest (who did he think he was, attempting to take care of her when he was clearly angry at her?) but found herself distracted. The coat was warm and soft and smelled pleasantly like Killian. If he wanted to give it up, that was his own problem. In fact, he deserved it for being such an irritable ass.

However, Emma still found herself unable to sleep. Now she was distracted by guilt and couldn't help studying the pirate's still silhouette. He looked much more vulnerable than she had ever really seen him. It was one thing for him to be missing his coat, but his posture itself was far more sunken than usual. His chin rested on his knees as though he was too tired to hold his head up, and now he was shivering lightly. With a sigh of her own, Emma curled one last time into the comfort of the warm coat that smelled of the ocean and spice and something unmistakably clean and _Killian_, fully intending to give it back to its owner, when she felt something wet on the inside of the coat.

She would have assumed that it was just rain, but it felt oddly warm and more wet than the slight dampness of the rest of the coat. Hesitantly, Emma brought her fingers to her nose and froze, smelling the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

"Hook, you're hurt," Emma hissed, sitting up abruptly.

Killian jumped slightly. "Swan, I thought you were asleep."

She was already moving towards him, the coat wrapped around her still like a blanket. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably now as she looked at the past few hours in a new light. Perhaps his silence didn't have anything to do with anger at all. Maybe it was pain that had caused his tense silence, and she'd just misread it.

"Stop avoiding the question. What happened? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Calm down, love, it's barely a scratch," Killian replied.

"Where?" Emma demanded, kneeling down beside him.

"I've taken care of it. Just go back to sleep," he brushed her off gently.

"_Where_?" Emma snarled.

Even in the dim light, she could see Killian rolling his eyes slightly, but he gingerly lifted up his shirt to reveal his right side.

"Just a scratch and a cracked rib, I'd wager," he told her.

Emma leaned down to examine it. She couldn't see much from the first rays of sun struggling to shine past the clouds, but she could see that he'd tied some fabric loosely around himself. Hesitantly, Emma brushed her fingertips against it.

"It's already bled through. I think it's more than a scratch," she hissed.

"It'll stop eventually. If it doesn't stop by morning, I should have a needle and thread in one of my pockets so that I can close it up," Killian mumbled. He sounded exhausted.

"Hook! It's been hours. You need to do it now," she said urgently.

"While I'm flattered by your concern, love, I think I may need better light to attempt it," he replied, looking around pointedly.

"Are you kidding me?" Emma exclaimed, her insides twisting with worry. "Well, you should at least lie down or lean against something."

Without waiting for permission, she grabbed his arm and started to pull him to his feet, causing him to emit a low groan between clenched teeth.

"I can stand on my own, lass," he said tersely, pulling his arm away from hers as he moved slowly towards the tree trunk to lean against it. As soon as he was seated again, breathing hard, Emma reached down to examine the cut once again.

"Damn, I wish I had a flashlight."

"A what?" He asked, genuinely confused as he swatted her hand away.

"Flashlight! You know, like a... torch, but you just press a button and the light comes on?" Emma explained hurriedly.

"Ah, yes, I believe I'm familiar with those devices. I'd just not heard the name. Rather a strange name, really," he muttered to himself, squeezing his right arm tightly against the bandaged area with a slight groan.

"Do you need help?" Emma asked awkwardly, realizing that this was one time when a left hand would probably have been helpful.

Hook just glared at her, which made her irritated once again.

"So, how did this even happen?" She asked.

"Well, you know how it is. Sharp objects come in contact with skin, the skin breaks-"

"By 'sharp object', I'm assuming you mean sword? Belonging to...?" Emma cut in, choosing to ignore his smartass remarks.

"No one of consequence. Just a few men eager to challenge my position. I'm confident that they won't be doing that again," Hook said, a hard edge to his voice. "Are you going to sleep, love? If not, I think I-"

"You should have told me," she told him angrily. "We could've stopped earlier-"

"As I said, Swan, I took care of it. Besides, it should be of little consequence to you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Emma shouted.

Killian raised an eyebrow at her. "Well, as I understand it, you are returning to New York. I'll ensure that you return to the present, and, after that, my state of well-being is hardly your concern as I doubt we will meet again."

"You aren't seriously going with that, are you?" Emma replied incredulously, bristling as she read between the lines. Did he honestly believe that she valued his well-being only for his usefulness to her?

"You certainly didn't need something else to worry about," Killian added as if she hadn't spoken. His concerned expression in the dim light said it all; she was still an open book to him. He could tell how much the uncertainty of the future was bothering her.

"Yeah, because I wouldn't have worried if you'd dropped dead from blood loss or anything," she muttered.

"Well, there would be no point in worrying at that point, love. Death is rather irreversible and worrying about it is a bloody waste of energy," Killian groaned, readjusting his arm over the makeshift bandage.

Emma scowled at him, but her mind had suddenly leapt back to the Jolly Roger, to cupboards and drawers packed with mementos to lost loved ones. She supposed that if anyone had learned lessons about the irreversibility of death, it would be Killian. The contrast between his pragmatism and her parents views, for example, was significant. Her parents were people who believed that death was never permanent, and, for them, perhaps that was true. It was also true for Rumplestiltskin, which must have been especially horrible for Killian. Apparently, powers of resurrection were selective and not always just.

As usual, Killian saw right through her sudden emotional shift.

"Something wrong, love?" He looked at her searchingly.

It was at that moment that Emma came to a conclusion with startling clarity. "Were you going to tell me before you saw me with that picture?" Emma asked suddenly.

Killian opened his mouth to respond, but then paused, scratching behind his ear uncomfortably. "I suppose that it did slip my mind after that..."

"So you were mad at me." It wasn't a question.

"I apologize. It was childish on my part, but I wasn't in the mood for conversation. You deserved to know that I had sustained injury, but I needed some time to myself," he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

Emma felt a small twinge of guilt. "You didn't want me to talk to you about... what I'd found?"

"I avoid backstory at all costs, Swan," Killian sighed.

In a sense, Emma could understand it. She'd had her share of unpleasant memories. They sat in a tiny shadowed corner of her mind that allowed her to mostly forget them and function on a day to day basis. That corner was the place where she kept the hurt of being abandoned by her parents and later Neal, the hurt of never being wanted, and the anger towards the people in the system who had never provided the love craved by a lonely little girl. As long as they stayed in that corner, the grief was minimal, but the second she pulled them to the surface again, the pain was always as strong as before. People had a tendency to claim that time healed all wounds, but Emma had learned that time did no such thing. Time just taught you to forget them and to live with an increased extra burden of grief.

"Did you talk about it with Milah?" The question popped out before Emma could stop it, seemingly from thin air.

Killian glanced at her in surprise, but recovered quickly. "Well, there wasn't too much to tell Milah. She was already familiar with a great deal of it."

Emma tilted her head in thought. "Wait, so... are you saying that you met before she married Rumplestiltskin?"

"Aye, we knew each other some time before," Killian confirmed, looking faraway.

A million questions flooded Emma's mind at once, half-blinding her. She wanted nothing more than to just let them all flood out, regardless of their coherence, but she knew she had to handle the situation carefully.

"So, no backstory. Never? Not with anyone? Not even someone you won't see much of in the future?" Emma prompted.

Killian chuckled quietly. "Swan, subtlety was never your strong point. There was a reason I wished to avoid the subject earlier; if you wish to know, I doubt that I can deny you anything." There was a hint of something almost wistful or resigned in his words.

"Well, Captain, I would love to be your first," Emma said teasingly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Killian grinned in spite of himself at her wording.

"What would you like to know?"

Emma bit her lip in consideration, faces and names and letters and music all blurring together.

"Your parents," she said finally. "Who were they?"

Killian closed his eyes, and soon enough his deep, smooth voice was painting the air with pictures and faces long forgotten by the world for well onto two hundred years.

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><p>The next chapter is going to focus on my own version of Hook's parents. I'll try to get it up quickly! Thanks again for reading. :)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter introduces Killian's mother. Killian hasn't been born yet, but I promise that it's necessary backstory!

Thanks for reading and thank you everyone who has followed, favourited, and reviewed. I promise to reply to you guys soon; I just wanted to focus on getting this chapter up first!

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><p>The Past - Approximately 1789 C.E.<p>

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><p>It was evening, and the air was so hot and thick that Christine Crewe could almost taste the jungle on her tongue. Monkeys chattered in the distance, and somewhere an elephant trumpeted. Christine closed her eyes, dangling bare feet into the warm ocean, trying to commit the moment to memory.<p>

"What are you doing?"

A little boy with light blonde hair was looking at her curiously, his nose scrunched up as he considered her in all the seriousness a ten-year-old could muster.

"I'm saying goodbye," Christine replied, patting on the rock next to her in invitation.

"Why?" He asked, sitting down agreeably. At his age, four years older still felt like a lot, and the trust he had in Christine's omnipotence was absolute.

"Because I like it here, and I want to remember everything in case we don't return," she replied seriously, her blue eyes boring into her brother's identical ones.

"Oh," he said, looking out across the ocean in consideration. Then, in a small voice, he asked, "do you think the Enchanted Forest will be as nice as it is here?"

"It is," Christine confirmed seriously. She'd been only four when she left, but that left her with more memories of the place than her two-year-old brother. However, she didn't really remember much of the place itself. She mostly remembered her mother, a thin woman with sparkling eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and a lilting accent that turned every sentence into a question. She tried to remember those good memories of her mother, rather than the bad. It was because of her mother's death that her father had taken them to the Southern Isles in the first place, and that was a nightmarish moment that Christine remembered far too clearly. Her mother had picked her up in a panic, trying in vain to run further into the house to escape the bad men (that was what her father had always called them, and the name had stuck even now that she was older). Then Christine had felt a thump, heard a hitched breath, and fallen to the floor under the weight of her now still mother. She'd been pulled roughly out, with one of the bad men poking a sword towards her neck hard enough to leave a thin scar, when her father had come in and saved the day. They didn't have time to grieve Katie Crewe. The three remaining family members had left on the next ship.

"Christine! Connor!" Their father called.

Connor scampered towards Jonathan Crewe, jumping into his arms. Christine, ever the dignified older sister, followed behind more slowly.

"We have to leave?" She asked reluctantly.

"Yes, love, we do," he replied with a sympathetic smile, ruffling her unruly dark curls affectionately.

As much as she hated to admit it, having no mother had never been a problem for Christine. She remembered only a few things about her that didn't even form a complete enough picture for Christine to remember whether she even liked the woman, but she imagined she must have. Her mother had tried to save her, after all, and surely that was enough to prove that she was a good person. However, her memories and the stories she heard about her mother always conflicted. Her mother had met her father when she took him prisoner. To understand why, you had to look back to _her_ parents, who were murdered when she was a child along with the rest of her family by a man who wanted - and got - their throne. As a result, Katie Crewe had been a threat to one of the kingdoms in the Southern Enchanted Forest because she was the one surviving member of her family. That meant that no one there seemed to like her very much, (which seemed a little bit unfair to Christine). Katie had kidnapped John to try to coerce his family - some nobles just to the North - into backing her claim to the throne. From what Christine gathered, that hadn't worked so well because that just made them go to the mean king for help (the "mean king" was another of her father's labels that had just stuck). Then the mean king had decided to execute Katie, but John had secretly freed her in exchange for the promise that she would give up all designs on the throne and try to have a normal life. Apparently, that meant marrying him, because after running away they married in secret less than a year later.

So, that was the issue. On one hand, Christine remembered her mother with the sparkling eyes and musical voice. On the other hand, she heard stories about her mother running around kidnapping people and burning people she didn't like at the stake. Multiple times. All in all, the two pieces of the puzzle were a bit hard for her to fit together.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Wait a second," Emma interrupted incredulously. "Your grandmother burned people alive?!"<p>

Killian chortled. "Does that surprise you, love? She was _my_ grandmother."

"Yes, of course it surprises me! That isn't what people normally do!" Emma defended, eyes wide.

"You do know what your son's other mother did to people, right? Murder is a bit more common around here, although perhaps more so when I was a lad."

Emma opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. On second thought, she didn't want to know.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Christine's inability to grasp who her mother really was made it easy to mostly forgot about her, except for when her father looked particularly sad. She'd explained early on to her brother that his sad face meant he was thinking of Katie and he needed time alone. When he didn't need time alone, he was the best father in the entire world. He liked dancing and chocolate and playing the violin while Christine sang in her pure soprano voice. He had been willing to play ferocious animals during her games as a little (which she always justified based on his beard making him the hairiest), and now that she was older he was still the first person she talked to about anything. He also was a wonderful teacher, and the only teacher Christine had ever had. She'd learned all of the regular subjects from him, like history and geometry and literature and music, but he'd also taught her more important things, like how to use a knife to protect herself. He had a deep laugh and a frequent smile, and Christine knew that he loved her and Connor best in the entire world.<p>

Christine also knew that he was a very _good_ man, which was both good and annoying. He was good, which made Christine love him, but he was also _good_, which meant that when his adopted family wanted him to come back and help now that the mean king was trying to take over their lands too, Jonathan Crewe didn't even hesitate before agreeing to come.

Christine knew that she was going to miss the Southern Isles. There was no king there, which meant no mean men came and tried to kill her. There were elephants and the people were all kind and spoke to her in a beautiful language that reminded her of a gurgling brooke with its soft, smooth words. The food was spicy and the air was hot, and the ocean was always glimmering at her invitingly.

However, there was one exciting thing about returning to the Enchanted Forest. The only thing Christine loved as much as the Southern Isles and her family was singing. Her father had (reluctantly) agreed to allow her to go to school in a Northern coastal city to learn how to be a singer when they got back to the Enchanted Forest while Connor stayed with her youngest uncle, who was going to be in charge of the castle while papa and the rest of his family went to fight the mean king.

Yes, Christine was going to miss the Southern Isles, but perhaps the Enchanted Forest wouldn't be so awful after all.

* * *

><p>The Enchanted Forest was awful.<p>

Christine had managed not to cry when she said goodbye to papa and Connor (after making Connor _promise_ to eat his vegetables), but that only meant that now she had to cry as quietly as she could in her room now to make up for it.

A quiet knock on the door pulled Christine out of feeling sorry for herself.

"Enter," she sniffed.

A girl about her age walked in with a broom.

"Apologies, miss, but I'm supposed to clean your room."

Christine looked at her blankly. "I can do it."

The girl looked at her just as blankly. "If you do it, I won't get my wages, miss."

After Christine took a moment to re-evaluate the girl in front of her in case she'd missed something, she asked hesitantly, "aren't your parents employed? You should be getting some sort of an education, shouldn't you?"

The girl's jaw dropped before she dissolved into suppressed giggles. "Oh no, miss... my parents died years ago. If I wasn't working, I'd be dead on the streets."

"That's not very fair," Christine said matter-of-factly. Then her eyes lit up. "Let me help you!"

The girl protested, but Christine ignored her. Soon, the room was clean, and Christine had managed to convince the girl to sit down and talk. They talked for so long that Christine insisted on helping her with her other chores so that she could finish in a good amount of time.

Sari was the first real friend that Christine had. When Christine discovered that Sari slept in the kitchen, she insisted that Sari share her room and the girls talked each night away. Christine suspected that her singing instructor knew that Sari had help with her chores, but she didn't say anything about it so long as Christine kept up with her school work too. The headmistress of the school was another matter, but, fortunately, the woman was too involved in her own affairs to notice the blossoming friendship underneath her nose.

Several months into her first semester, Christine sent a long earnest letter to her father outlining a proposition. On the evening that she received a response, after reading it several times to ensure that her eyes weren't deceiving her, she ran to the dining hall where Sari was currently setting the table for the pupils and students of the school.

Christine was so excited that she almost ran into her friend, who let out a small frightened squeak like a small animal.

"Lord, what was that for, Christine?" She gasped.

"I've received a letter from my father!" Christine cried in response, wrapping her arms around her friend.

"That's good to hear," Sari replied, sounding slightly confused.

"No, you have to hear what it says!" Christine insisted, waving the letter around.

"What?" Sari asked, going back to setting the table.

Christine followed her friend around reading excitedly.

"My darling Christine, I was quite surprised at the contents of your letter. Sari sounds like a lovely young woman. Indeed, from reading your missive, I almost feel as though I know her myself. As you know, I myself was raised by others than my own parents, and, you are right, I do have great sympathy for orphans. While having one daughter has always been blessing enough for me, I agree that you having a sister could be most agreeable as well. I have sent another letter to the headmistress of your school informing her that Sari is now also my daughter, and look forward to meeting her in the near future."

Sari was so shocked that she dropped the silverware.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Your grandfather just adopted her?!" Emma exclaimed.<p>

"He was sympathetic to the plight of an orphan and woefully wrapped around my mother's finger, from what I gather," Killian replied. "But yes, that's the story of how I got an aunt."

Emma frowned, finding it difficult to push down her resentment at anyone getting adopted so easily.

"If it makes you feel any better, I gathered from my mother's stories that the headmistress disliked her as much as you seem to-" Emma blushed slightly, thankful for the darkness to hide it "-and she mistreated both my mother and my aunt terribly, until finally selling them out to the 'mean king', as my mother so astutely put it."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Over the next two years, Christine flourished. She was a skillful musician, both in theory and practice, and started to gain attention from people in high places. She began to sing at finer and finer events, although she also enjoyed sneaking into town to sing in less upper class areas. The music there was far different, and Christine enjoyed the change. For once, every note didn't have to be perfect. The music was far less refined, and it was the performance that the people enjoyed. Whenever she was caught sneaking out or sneaking in, the headmistress would give her horrible beatings, but she continued her ventures into the city regardless.<p>

The spat between her father's family and the mean king ended several months before her sixteenth birthday. Her father had disappeared several months before and everyone had presumed him dead, which the headmistress gleefully took advantage of. For several months, Christine slept in the rat-infested basement and did chores with Sari, discontinuing her lessons but still singing at various events. Of course, any payment for those went to the headmistress. The heartbreak of losing her father caused Christine's voice to grow in its emotional capacity, and only added to her success even if she suffered a great deal on a personal level.

However, her father reappeared in spite of all the odds and Christine rejoiced in having her father back. Sari rejoiced in meeting John and later Connor, and both became close friends with her quickly.

The period of happiness that followed was intense but brief. John, Connor, and Sari supported Christine at every event. Her teacher functioned as the closest thing to a mother that Christine had yet experienced. Even her headmistress was somewhat bearable after the return of her father, if only because John had threatened her so severely that she was pale for a week.

Everything changed in January 1792, three months after Christine turned sixteen, when Christine came home from her latest opera performance to find her father extremely ill.

"Connor, fetch a doctor. Sari, find more blankets." Christine ordered tersely, already starting a fire to try to warm the room. Her father's skin was cool to the touch, pale, and covered in a thick layer of sweat.

"Christine," her father called quietly as Connor ran out into the night.

"Yes, papa?" She asked worriedly, running to her father's side. He looked as if he were halfway to his grave, and she had never been so frightened.

"I am so proud of you, my love. It amazes me to look at you now. A few years ago, you were my little girl, and now you've grown into a beautiful woman like your mother. I thank the Gods every day that you ended up looking like her," he chuckled weakly.

"Papa, that's unkind to yourself. If you keep talking like that, people will assume you're looking for compliments. Besides, I got your hair, didn't I?" Christine was suddenly concerned that she got nothing from her father. She would much rather be like her father than a mother that she'd barely known.

"Yes, you did," he agreed, running his fingers weakly through a dark curl.

Christine smiled a tight, worried smile.

"But Christine, I am proudest of you for how well you look after your family. You're the best sister that Connor and Sari could have. You have a nurturing soul. Never lose that, my darling," he whispered.

"Everything I do I've learned from you," Christine insisted, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping her father's sweaty face gently.

"Promise me that you'll always look after Connor. He's growing up, but he's still young and needs you more than ever," Jonathan Crewe said very seriously.

"Fortunately, looking after Connor isn't something that I'll need to do for some time yet-" Christine replied brusquely.

"Christine," her father interrupted.

"No, the doctor will be here soon and you'll be fine again. Fever always causes delusions, papa-"

"I know this is difficult, but you're a grown woman now, Christine. You have to promise me that you'll take care of your brother," he repeated, eyes soft and sad.

"I promise, papa, but you'll be fine," Christine insisted, blinking back tears angrily.

"I love you," he whispered with a smile, closing his eyes and giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

When Sari came in with the sheets, she heard gentle sobbing.

"I need you, papa. You already left. Don't do it again. I can't lose you twice. Please, come back," Christine sobbed softly into her father's still chest.

Sari dropped the laundry and ran to her friend, holding her head in her lap as she sobbed.

"Come back," Christine repeated as a mantra, her voice breaking on each plea.

"Shh," Sari whispered, hugging her friend more tightly.

The doctor pronounced Jonathan Crewe dead, but, from what, he wasn't entirely sure.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"It was poison," Killian clarified, seeing Emma's thoughtful expression.<p>

"How do you know?" Emma asked.

Killian winced. "I'll get to that."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Connor cried silently while the doctor was there, but, the second he left, he ran to Christine's arms and threw his arms around her.<p>

The three siblings cried until dawn, when the door broke down with a crash.

They weren't the same mean men from her childhood, but Christine recognized the uniform. They all wore red, with a black hawk imprinted on the middle of each tunic. It was the standard of the mean king, Christine knew.

Christine stepped protectively in front of her siblings, grabbing her father's knife off the table beside him.

"What is your business here?" She asked coolly.

"Put it away, lass," the man at the front said. His face was scarred, as though someone had cut it apart and then put it back together wrong.

"Answer the question," she retorted, "or I'll kill you."

The man raised his eyebrows at her mockingly. "You could kill me, but then you would also have to slay all of my men, and the men outside of your door. You're surrounded girl. If you surrender, neither you nor your brother nor your servant will be harmed," he promised.

Sari opened her mouth to retort, but Christine interrupted pointedly.

"Thank you for your service, Sari, but I now release you. Please take whatever money is in my father's satchel as a bonus," Christine said, shooting her sister a pleading glance. If they were only aware of her sibling by blood, she intended to keep it that way.

Sari left reluctantly, tears running rivers down her face.

"Put the knife down," the carved up man ordered.

Christine dropped it and walked towards the mean men with her head held high, followed by her trembling little brother.

It was only when they took her brother away from her that she began to panic.

"No, you gave me your word that you wouldn't hurt us!" She snarled.

"We won't," the man agreed. "But our orders require you at the palace and your brother elsewhere. His life will be in no danger so long as you cooperate."

"Chrissy, don't let them take me!" Connor sobbed, pulling away from the much bigger men around him. It was the use of the pet nickname that he'd used as a young child that alarmed her the most, however.

Christine rushed towards him and threw her arms around her sobbing brother.

"Just follow any demands they have, Connor," she whispered. "I _will_ see you again soon. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you; I'll do anything to keep you safe. We just have to do what they want for the moment, alright? I love you."

Connor's crying would haunt her ears for weeks to come, as would her promise to her father that she had broken less than a day after his death.

When she finally reached the castle of the mean king, Christine felt nothing that she was expecting to. She was expecting to feel fear or dread. Instead, all she felt over her numbing grief was cold hatred. She almost looked forward to meeting this king. Perhaps, if she was fast enough, she'd even be able to strangle him before they killed her. Well, if they didn't have Connor, anyway. They had played the game well, and Christine was clever enough to know when she was in checkmate.

However, there was one thing that she didn't know and couldn't know regardless of how clever she was; within the next few months, she was going to meet her husband.

* * *

><p>I'm sure you can guess what the next chapter will be about, but... yes, in the next chapter, the two people with the glorious genes that created Killian Jones will be meeting.<p>

I'm sorry if this chapter feels a bit summary-ish. I didn't want to write ten pages on a backstory of someone in my head who may only interest me, which is why this is a bit more brief. It will get more detailed as we reach things that I think you'll find more interesting or relevant.

Oh, and just a side note if you're curious: Christine had two "fairytale" (it's probably more accurate to just say "fictional") influences that helped me to develop her. One of them should be fairly clear by the end of this chapter if you're familiar with the story. GoT is also an influence to a small degree (mostly just the through the political situation of the time), but I didn't want it to influence me to such a degree that this story ended up being a crossover! However, if the political situation looks a little bit familiar, that's why (and that's as far as that influence is going to go!).


	4. Chapter 4

It took less than two weeks of living in the palace for Christine to come to several conclusions.

Firstly, the king was an ass. King Clayton reminded Christine of one of the particularly ugly breeds of monkey in the Southern Isles that you could frequently find scratching inappropriately and flinging its own feces, which gave her some mild satisfaction. However, the realization that the king was an ill-tempered, impulsive brute with very little control over his own tongue helped her to realize that he was not her true concern.

No, the real problem was Lord Alasdair, the king's advisor. Just from looking at him, you could tell that he may not sit on the throne, but he was still the man with the power. He had a sort of evil charisma about him and a tendency to stare with cold grey eyes straight through a person, as if he was reading everything worth knowing and judging the person inadequate. He was a tall man and sturdily built, with greying brown hair and a face that was always clean-shaven. You could tell he cared a great deal about appearances, particularly by the always newly clean handkerchief that would appear out of his doublet if he had to touch anything that was not up to his standards of cleanliness. He smelled vaguely of lavender, and, as a result, the smell would remain unbearable to Christine for the remainder of her life.

After making this conclusion, she quickly drew several others. They had not killed her (that one was a fairly obvious conclusion to draw). They also seemed to have no intention of harming her; she was given her own rooms complete with beautiful clothes and servants, and treated quite well under the circumstances. The king dined with her about once a week along with Prince Julian, the queen, Lord Alasdair, and whoever else was unfortunate enough to receive an invitation from the soon-to-be-intoxicated king. From this and her brother's captivity, she had easily discerned multiple reasons for her captivity. While keeping her brother elsewhere, she was unable to make any move against them or escape. If her father's adoptive family up North decided to stir up trouble, she would have no choice but to tell them to stand down, or else gamble away her brother's life. There was a possibility that they were trying to get her on their side, she supposed; perhaps they thought nice dresses could buy her loyalty. Christine would laugh at the thought if not her for her simmering resentment. The last reason she could possibly think of was that they wanted her here for entertainment, since she sang for them most days of the week and spent much of her day learning music to perform. The king and his family showered her with praise for her voice, but his compliments fell on deaf ears. Lord Alasdair's one positive point was that he didn't deem this necessary; he reacted with cold calculation to each song just as he reacted to everything else in his life.

It was easy enough for Christine to tell that she was constantly tailed around the palace, and so she learned quickly that an escape attempt would be pointless. Each day had her feeling more and more stifled, until one day she decided to experiment. What would her tail think if she escaped the palace, but wasn't really _escaping_? That night, she snuck off to a pub in the surrounding city, being careful to keep the unfortunate guard close behind her. Considering she was not executed or even rebuked, Christine rejoiced in the small victory.

Several weeks after she discovered her new limited freedom, she walked into the pub to see someone that she didn't expect.

This someone had dark, velvety skin, large dark eyes framed by long eyelashes, long black hair that fell loosely around her shoulders...

Christine would recognize her sister anywhere.

"Sari!" She exclaimed, running towards her sister with open arms. Sari shrieked and dropped her drink, but didn't seem to care based on how tightly she hugged Christine.

"What are you doing here?" Christine demanded, suddenly worried for her friend.

"I could ask the same of you! Did you escape? Should we run?" Sari whispered, eyes darting around nervously. The thought was a little late, in Christine's opinion, and she couldn't hold back a small laugh.

"God, no. I have a guard who follows me here and seems fine with my nightly ventures so long as they don't extend past the city walls," Christine clarified. "I'm just here to sing and retain my sanity."

"You'll have to tell me everything-" Sari said seriously, eyes sad.

"Connor? Do you know where he is?" Christine interrupted, fear creeping into her tone in spite of herself.

"He's in a prison a few days ride to the East," Sari replied. "It looked like a high security place, so I didn't investigate much further before coming to try and locate you."

Christine bit her lip, suddenly feeling despairing. She'd hoped that he might be at another castle, perhaps with a relative of the king or a family particularly loyal to the crown. The news that he was in a prison implied far worse treatment. Christine had never felt more hopeless in her entire life.

"I'm certain that Connor will be fine. He's learned from the best, after all," Sari told her gently.

"That's a little bit self-indulgent. You only knew the boy for a few months," Christine teased, attempting a smile but largely failing. Sari gave her a light shove in retribution.

"Oh, I have something to tell you!" She blurted, eyes lighting up. "I know it's not much, but I think it should make you at least slightly more cheerful. I was able to break back into our house after the soldiers left. I made sure papa had a proper burial-"

Christine winced. She'd been trying very hard to avoid thinking of her father, although it hadn't been very successful. Mostly, she just avoided thinking about it until she was in bed at night, when she was finally able to cry for as long as she needed to.

"That's not the cheerful part," Sari assured her. "The cheerful part is that I was able to smuggle out some of his belongings. I'm renting a room a few streets down, and I have them there. I was able to find the locket with your mother and father's portrait in it that papa meant to give to you for an eighteenth birthday present - sorry to spoil the surprise, but I see no point in secrecy anymore - and I also grabbed papa's violin. I know it was foolish of me to take that, of all things, but I just couldn't stand the thought of it being thrown away-"

Blinking back tears, Christine threw her arms around Sari's neck and pulled the taller girl into a tight hug. "Thank you," she whispered.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"I didn't see a locket. Was it lost?" Emma blurted before she could stop herself. Oh well, Killian was probably fully aware of the extent of her prying.<p>

With a small, distant smile, Killian shook his head. "No."

Carefully, he shifted and plunged his hand into a pocket of his coat, now sitting around Emma's shoulders. Emma watched, transfixed, as he pulled out a long, silver, ornate locket on a chain. It was circular and looked old, but also as though it had been kept in very good condition. In the middle, there was a small tree with swirling branches. Around the tree were three different borders: the outer and inner one covered in a delicate pattern and the middle an arrangement of tiny light blue jewels.

"I've kept it on my person ever since my mother's passing," he explained. "That tree is the emblem of my mother's side of the family, and the blue was their colour. It had been in her family for centuries by the time she got it, with new portraits inserted for each owner, as I understand."

"Can I hold it?" Emma asked.

She half-expected him to refuse, but, to her surprise, he passed it over without hesitation. Emma ran her fingers along the front, before flipping it open. On the right half of the locket, a woman with sharp, pointed features and intense blue eyes stared at her haughtily, with long strawberry blonde loosely arranged around her face. She was a beautiful woman, but Emma could definitely imagine her burning people at the stake. She saw the resemblance between her and the wedding portrait of Christine, though; both had the same pale skin, distracting eyes, and sharp features. Emma wondered if the official colour of Katie's family had anything to do with the eye colour that seemed to run in the family; Killian had clearly gotten that from his mother's side, along with most of his looks. She could see bits of his grandfather in him too, although less prominently. His grandfather sat with a small smile on the left side of the locket, with long, unruly black curls and intelligent grey eyes. Clearly, Killian's hair colour matched John's more closely. John looked much less severe than Katie, as if he actually had a sense of humour. For that reason, despite very different facial features, she could still sense something Killian-like about him.

"So, your past self had it in his pocket too?" Emma inquired wonderingly.

Killian nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable under Emma's gaze.

She passed the locket back a little bit reluctantly and watched as he gently placed it back in its pocket. Suddenly, she was struck with the urge to check the rest of his pockets. What else did he have in there?

"So, when did your mom meet your dad?" Emma asked quickly, before she gave into the temptation to pry further into his belongings.

Killian smiled. "Oh, I think you'll enjoy this story."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>The first night Christine wore the locket was on a particularly special night at the palace. The king was throwing a party to celebrate his own birthday, and Christine was, of course, expected to sing for all of the guests. Tonight, she wasn't just singing for dinner entertainment or an afternoon concert, either. Tonight, she was singing an entire opera that some knight had sworn he had traveled to another world to get. Christine had laughed for at least five minutes at the story because she considered the concept of "other worlds" to be the product of a few too many pints at a pub, but she had to admit that the music was thrilling. She'd had the chance to work with other people, which she had missed while singing solo, and, beyond that, she was singing the devilishly difficult part of a villain. This particular villain was called the "Queen of the Night", and while Christine was surprised she would be cast as royalty in an opera for the king, she enjoyed playing a villain. The Queen was wonderfully manipulative and dramatic, and, best of all, at least slightly mentally unstable. Christine hoped to give the king nightmares.<p>

"I may need you to get me divine assistance for that one, though, Mama," Christine whispered to her locket as she tucked it down the front of her costume.

It was about halfway through the first aria that Christine noticed the man staring at her.

He was sitting between Lord Alasdair and the prince, and his eyes - a blue pale enough that they were almost grey - were wide and unblinking enough that she was almost concerned that he'd died and no one had noticed. However, much to her relief, he finally blinked. Perhaps he was staring to throw her off.

Well, two could play at that game.

Christine sang the remainder of her aria (mostly ridiculous, high, vocal acrobatic passages that sounded like maniacal - if very musical - laughter) staring down the man, who looked unbothered. At the end of her aria, he stood to applaud.

He stared at her through her second aria as well, and Christine stared back. If she hadn't been looking at only one person, she would have noticed that everyone else looked terrified. If anything, her impossibly blue eyes glaring at the man gave her character an even greater aura of mental instability.

She received a standing ovation during the bows by everyone and even had to come out and bow again. She smiled graciously as she did so, while secretly imagining running most of the people through with her knife.

She changed for the following ball with the singer who had played Pamina, the Queen of the Night's daughter. She was a young woman of no noble blood at all with a sweet voice and a sweet face to match, ironically several years older than Christine.

"They loved you," the singer commented enviously as a servant laced up the back of her dress.

"I'd wager that they just loved the character and the music," Christine replied absently, rubbing off her horrendously thick character make-up.

The woman gave her a skeptical glance.

"Did you see that man staring at me for the entire performance? I confess that I was barely paying attention to the rest of the audience because I was so irritated," Christine commented, now aggressively applying less dramatic make-up.

Her friend giggled. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately," groaned Christine. "Perhaps I ought to dance with him and step on his feet in vengeance."

"I wouldn't do that, Christine. He may be someone important."

"Even better," Christine muttered to herself, sweeping out of the room in a flutter of dark blue silk.

It took at least twenty minutes to pull herself away from all of the people congratulating her on her performance. When she finally, escaped it was to walk directly into a girl hovering just behind her who must have been only ten, although she was dressed as gracefully as any of the older ladies. Despite her elegant dress, however, the girl had plain features. Her eyes were grey, her hair a dull ashy light brown, and her lips thin. She looked uncomfortable, as if she wasn't quite aware of all of her limbs yet.

"Apologies, lady," she said, blushing.

"Apologies to you as well," Christine replied with a kind smile.

"I-I just wanted to say that I thought you were amazing. I wish I could sing like you," the girl blurted out shyly, staring at her toes.

Christine felt oddly flattered. "Well, sweetheart, I'm sure that you could if you worked at it."

The girl looked at her thoughtfully. "You're not nasty in real life?"

After a stunned silence, Christine's laughter bubbled over. "I sincerely hope not, but I suppose it depends on who you ask," she said finally, biting back her ridiculously large smile.

"Oh," the girl replied simply. "Isn't it terribly difficult to play someone that evil, then?"

Christine considered the question for a moment. "I'm not so certain that she is entirely evil. She lies, seeks revenge, and is horribly proud, but perhaps that's for a cause that she deems noble. Perhaps she really does truly just wish to save her daughter from being used by someone she views as evil. The evil that she does do, though, is easy to to act out. I just think of the evil people I've met in my life and take my cues from them. Or, if I'm in a particularly black mood, I can pretend that Sarastro is someone who has wronged me and imagine how much I would love to... cough on his breakfast."

The girl let out a loud snort, before flushing in embarrassment.

"That's actually very clever, lady," the girl approved, looking up at Christine through her pale lashes.

"Coughing on an enemy's breakfast is clever indeed," a rich baritone voice said from behind Christine.

"Edward!" The girl said with a bright grin. "I got to meet the singer!"

"I can see that," the man chuckled, moving over to the girl's side.

"You," Christine blurted, now face-to-face with the staring man.

"Oh, yes, I apologize. I should have introduced myself. I'm Edward and this is my sister, Jayne. I have never been more impressed by a performance in my life. I wasn't even aware that it was possible to sing that high," he said with a charming smile.

"Well, it's simple, really. I just think of something frightening," Christine quipped.

"Like spiders?" Jayne asked eagerly, clearly unaware of the shift in Christine's mood.

"Or strange men who won't stop staring at you," Christine added cheerfully, raising an eyebrow in challenge at the staring man.

The man laughed heartily. "That seems like a strange thing to think of... do you have much experience with that?"

"Not before tonight," Christine hinted meaningfully.

Edward looked confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in understanding. "Oh, you meant... apologies, my lady. I was very entranced by your performance and may have stared as a result. I assure you it was not something I was aware of. As I said, I'd never seen a performance like that before. However, while I can apologize for causing your discomfort, I certainly can't apologize for staring."

"Why is that?" Christine asked with a frown.

"Because I got the most lovely woman on stage to stare back at me as a result," he said with a crooked grin.

Jayne looked back and forth between them in amazement and giggled as Christine raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed.

Not really knowing how to react, Christine turned back to Jayne. "What was your favourite part of the performance?"

"The part where you told Pamina to kill Sarastro!" Jayne exclaimed without hesitation, face lighting up. "Mother was so nervous that she had to start fanning herself!"

"I wish I'd seen that," Edward commented.

"I think she almost fainted when you hit that last high note," his sister added, almost shaking with suppressed laughter.

She launched into an impression of Christine singing and then her mother reacting that had Christine gasping for air as she laughed.

"Good lord, did I really look like that?" Christine giggled.

Jayne opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Simultaneously, Christine became aware of the scent of lavender. Whirling around, her breath hitched slightly as she took in Lord Alasdair.

"I hardly think this is an appropriate conversation, Jayne," he said coldly.

"Sorry, father," she replied, staring at her feet again.

Lord Alasdair turned to Edward, his eyes ice. "And you. You should know better than to let your sister associate with-"

"I beg your pardon?" Christine interrupted smoothly, eyes flashing.

"We were only telling the Lady Christine how much we enjoyed-" Edward began to protest.

"That is hardly the appropriate title to use for her," Lord Alasdair interrupted again. "And there is no reason to congratulate anyone for going onstage and making a spectacle of herself. Come along, Jayne."

Jayne turned to follow her father with an apologetic glance towards Christine.

"I apologize for my father's rudeness," Edward said after a moment, shaking his head slightly in embarrassment.

Christine took a moment to really study him for the first time. He was a good head taller than she was, which wasn't difficult as she was a fairly average height. He was sturdily built with a serious face. If she were being completely unbiased, Christine would go so far as to say that he looked handsome.

The soft strains of a waltz began to play, and suddenly Edward was looking at her hopefully. "Allow me to make up for his rudeness with a dance?"

A mischievous smile did its own dance onto Christine's face. "Certainly."

Edward escorted her towards the other couples swathed in jewels and every colour of the rainbow before beginning to lead her through an elegant waltz. Or, rather, it would have been elegant, if Christine didn't have other plans. She kept a serene smile on her face as she stared into the eyes of her partner, deliberately stomping on his feet on nearly every other step.

It took only about a minute of pain for realization to dawn on Edward's face. "Either you're stepping on me on purpose, or you're the most atrocious dancer alive. Unless you prove otherwise, I may have to assume that it's the latter."

"Oh, really?" Christine challenged, eyes twinkling. "Well, sir, prepare to be out-danced."

The following minutes of the waltz had the other couples in a frenzy as they attempted to avoid the graceful whirlwind of Edward and Christine. While training for the opera, Christine had been required to take dance lessons and had quickly surpassed most of her classmates. The only thing better than sabotaging the dance was proving her own skill. She had hoped to make her partner look pathetically inferior, but he was unfortunately a graceful dancer himself. Christine found herself breathlessly swept away in his arms multiple times as he led her through various lifts and twirls. When the music ended, Christine was almost disappointed.

"Well, my lady, I concede. You are a wonderful dancer... with a strange desire for wreaking havoc on unsuspecting partners," Edward told her very seriously.

"You're fairly decent yourself... for a son of Lord Alasdair," Christine replied.

The corner of Edward's mouth twitched. "Perhaps you would do me the honour of dancing again with me?"

Christine pretended to look around. "Well, I seem to have a mysterious lack of suitors." She was honestly surprised that anyone was dancing with her at all. As a general rule, people seemed to be frightened of associating with her, most likely for fear of the axe if the king suspected them of treason.

"Very mysterious," Edward agreed. Christine (barely) resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the compliment. The etiquette of court could be extremely tedious and dull, and Christine had no love for false gallantry. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but sense that there was some sincerity behind Edward's words. She hoped she was imagining it.

"So... Edward," Christine tried the name out on her tongue as he pulled her into a second waltz. "Are you training to be a king's advisor, like your father?" Regardless of her intentions, she couldn't keep the scathing tone out of her voice.

Edward shook his head. "Once Julian is king, if he asks me to be his advisor, I may have to consider his offer; he's been my best friend since we were children. But, no, up until about a fortnight ago I was serving in the royal navy."

"Have you been to the Southern Isles?" Christine blurted without thinking.

Edward nodded. "Yes, it's a beautiful spot. That was one of the first voyages I went on. In fact, the king wanted us to find you and your family. Small world."

"Apparently," his partner replied coolly, stepping on her partner's foot deliberately.

"Incorrect response?" Asked Edward, with something like amusement in his eyes.

Christine just smiled politely at him. "There's nothing more beautiful than the ocean there," she commented, ignoring his last remark. "Have you noticed how you can smell it over the entire island? The smell always reminds me of home."

"And how are you liking it here at the palace?" Edward inquired, looking genuinely concerned.

"Well, there are worse prisons," Christine replied stiffly, thinking of Connor. "I certainly don't enjoy the uncertainty of my situation. Perhaps you can use your influence to ask your 'best friend' if he would either get on with things and murder me - like the rest of my family - or else let me go."

"Surely you can see why they can't, though," Edward said with real sympathy behind his words.

"No," Christine said stubbornly. "Considering that they never bothered to ask me if I was actually interested in their ridiculous throne."

"Aren't you?" Asked her partner, sounding genuinely confused at the implication.

"Of course I'm bloody well not interested," Christine exclaimed in exasperation. "That throne is a bloodbath. All it brings is death and destruction to all who claim it. I would be perfectly content to live out the rest of my life as a hermit with my family. I know nothing of ruling a country, and any attempt to claim my birthright would only lead to the death and suffering of its people, possibly even a civil war. I certainly don't want their blood on my hands. Perhaps you can tell _that_ to your friend."

Edward was looking at her strangely. Whatever he saw caused his face to soften. "I don't suppose that he would listen."

"No, I know he wouldn't," Christine sighed.

Edward considered her for a moment more, eyes staring straight through her once again.

"Could you possibly stop staring at me?" She demanded, attempting to ignore the strange fluttering in her stomach at his gaze.

"You're not what I was expecting," he said finally, with a small smile.

"And what were you expecting?" Christine raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Someone a bit more... threatening, I suppose," he replied.

"I _am_ threatening," Christine contradicted haughtily. "If you can't see that, then you are simply a fool."

Edward shrugged. "Well, perhaps you can be threatening, but not out of any inherently evil qualities."

"I believe your side is the evil side," Christine corrected automatically. "But you're not what I would have expected either. You actually seem to be capable of independent thought."

Edward smiled at this, as if she had just given him a particularly kind compliment.

Christine danced with Edward many more times that night, finding that their steps seemed to fall into an easy rhythm that still allowed for banter. While she tried to maintain a hold on the automatic loathing she'd had for him upon sight, she was finding it more and more difficult.

That night, as Christine climbed into bed, she had never been more conflicted. Thoughts of her conversation with Edward kept floating through her brain. Just from his loyalties, she would assume that he was fully capable of manipulation, but there was something very open about his face. His emotions seemed to sit there like the words of a book, just waiting to be read by any stranger. It was oddly endearing.

Christine pushed away the thoughts forcefully. It would be an insult to her father and mother's memory to befriend someone whose interests were so opposite to her own. With any luck, Edward would be on the next ship leaving port.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading, and my extra thanks to those of you who have followed, favourited, and reviewed!<p>

Again, I'm sorry for not responding to reviews yet. It seems to take a while for the ones that get emailed to me to actually appear on the site (particularly from guests), and I don't want to respond to something that is "invisible", so I may have to wait a bit still! Just know that I've seen them and they all bring a smile to my face. :)


	5. Chapter 5

The Past

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><p>"So, when's the wedding?"<p>

Christine glared at her sister, taking a long drink from her glass of whiskey. Rehearsals had been so exhausting that she hadn't been able to see Sari for several weeks. Her performance at the king's birthday had been such a success that she'd been singing nightly. Annoyingly, Edward showed no signs of leaving yet and always seemed to be following her, with his eyes if not his body. He was ridiculously friendly towards her and talked to her whenever he had a chance, regardless of how coolly Christine responded. Now that she'd finally been given a night off from performing, she'd escaped from the palace for some much-needed normalcy with her sister.

"I have no interest in the man at all," Christine insisted. "Although I quite like his sister. It's a pity that the child will no doubt grow up to be as terrible as the rest of that family. They were instrumental in killing my grandparents, perhaps even more than the king himself. I believe it was Lord Alasdair himself who killed my grandmother and all of my mother's siblings while the king took care of my grandfather."

"I think I've heard that before," Sari said thoughtfully. "Can you imagine, murdering children!" She shuddered at the thought, pulling her grey shawl more tightly around her shoulders, dark eyes wide.

"Heartless bastard," Christine replied harshly, taking another gulp of the whiskey.

Sari glanced around nervously. "I'd be a bit careful, Christine. You wouldn't want the wrong people to hear you."

In response to her sister's skeptical look, Sari continued in hushed tones. "From what I understand, the political situation is becoming unstable again. There are rumours of resistance to the king's rule, and rumour has it that the resistance wants to put you on the throne."

Christine choked on her whiskey. Once she had recovered from her coughing fit, she stared at her sister as if she'd grown an extra head.

"Best of luck with that," she gasped finally.

Frowning, Sari leaned forward to grasp Christine's hand firmly. "Just... be careful. This is not a good time for anyone to hear you say anything that could be viewed as treachery."

"I will be," Christine promised, heart sinking with dread at the news.

As Christine returned to the palace, she couldn't help shivering regardless of the slightly warmer April weather. She wrapped her dark cloak more tightly around herself as she approached the palace. Was it her imagination, or were there more guards around the walls than usual? Feeling uncharacteristically nervous, Christine wandered over to the side of one of the walls, where the loose grate that opened into a tunnel that she used to leave the palace was located. To her surprise, it was guarded.

Of course, considering that she'd learned of its location from listening to regular palace gossip, she'd known that the king was aware of the tunnel's existence and it was probably watched closely. Nevertheless, it had never been guarded before.

Swallowing hard, Christine lowered her hood and walked towards the four men lounging against the damp stone. Only one of them looked surprised to see her. She entered without having to exchange a word with any of them, feeling distinctly uneasy.

She was three quarters of the way through the tunnel when she heard footsteps slapping against the stone coming towards her. Christine froze. Was someone coming to arrest her? How stupid she'd been to assume that the king would allow her to leave the palace regularly without some sort of an ulterior motive.

Christine stopped and braced herself, waiting for the inevitable flicker of light from a torch or clanking of armour. Instead, a small figure crashed into her headlong.

In the dim light of the tunnel, she could only see that he was a child of about ten years old, with light brown hair and brown eyes. He was almost hyperventilating from fear.

"Please, let me go, miss," he begged, voice cracking.

"If you're evading capture, this is not the way to go. There are guards at the end of the tunnel," Christine replied matter-of-factly.

The boy dropped into a ball on the floor and started crying quietly while Christine considered him.

"They're g-going to kill m-me," he sobbed.

In that moment, Christine made a decision. She wondered if this is what her uncles and aunts had looked like when Lord Alasdair had murdered them. She certainly wouldn't let something like that happen again, if she could help it.

"No, they're not," she said firmly. "At least not if I can help it. But we're going to have to find another way out."

The boy looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe his ears. "You don't want me dead?"

"Good lord, of course not," she promised. The very fact that he was apparently an enemy to the king made him a friend, regardless of whatever "crime" the king imagined him guilty of.

"We have to keep moving. There's likely a guard close behind me, and our first job is to lose him," Christine said, helping the boy up. She began to run, holding the boy's hand to ensure that they stayed together.

The tunnel opened up at a grate just outside of the kitchens. At this hour, there were no servants there, but Christine doubted that the empty hall would remain guard-less for long.

"When I open the grate, it's going to make a loud noise," Christine warned the boy, who winced in response. "The second I stand up, I want you to get underneath my cloak and hide behind me. If we're lucky, no one will look too closely." _And see a boy-shaped lump_, Christine added with a groan in her head. This plan was looking more and more suicidal by the second.

As she had predicted, seconds after she had replaced the grate and the boy was hiding behind her, the sound of footsteps echoed from around the corner.

Christine crossed her arms and waited.

When the guards appeared, panting, she only raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing here?" One of the guards demanded threateningly.

"Is it a crime to go for a walk when one cannot sleep due to the horrendous racket?" Christine inquired, injecting as much venom into each word as she could. Some of the men looked guilty.

"There's a boy in the palace. Have you seen him?"

Christine looked pityingly at the group. "There are many boys in the palace. You may need to give me specifics."

"You would recognize him as being out of place. If you see him, be sure to report it. He's very dangerous," the first guard spoke again.

"A child?" Christine said with a mocking smile. "Not to worry, I'm sure that I would be more than capable of handling myself against someone half my size."

The guard scowled, but nodded at the others to turn around. Christine breathed a sigh of relief the second they moved around the corner.

"You can come out now," Christine assured her charge, who was white as a sheet as he emerged from underneath the heavy black fabric. "I think our best chance will be to get into the courtyard and hide in a supply cart. Follow my lead and stay hidden."

The next few minutes were perhaps the most terrifying of Christine's life. She and the boy had to backtrack multiple times when they heard soldiers moving towards them and often had to rely on shadows or shoddy hiding places. When they finally reached the entrance to the courtyard, Christine felt her heart sink. There were several guards milling around, clearly on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. Still, they were running out of options. If this plan didn't work, Christine wasn't certain of what to do. That meant that this plan _had_ to work, regardless of risk.

"Follow me," Christine whispered. She pulled her hood over her face and crouched down to run. She kept close to the stones of the castle for as long as she could, where the moon created quite a heavy shadow. However, eventually, she held her breath and sprinted quietly to a cart with the boy at her heels. She collapsed behind it, her heart pounding. The boy was shaking beside her. Still, she hadn't heard the soldiers sound any alarm, so perhaps it was time to plan her next move.

Christine carefully positioned herself into a crouch behind the wagon and peered over the top, only to see a man coming toward her.

Edward.

Christine cursed quietly under her breath, dropping down and beckoning the boy over. She threw part of the cloak around him so that he was at least partially hidden, before making herself as small as possible. She closed her eyes and listened to the quiet approaching footsteps, barely daring to breath. They were only coming closer. She could only pray - something that she hadn't done since her father had been presumed dead for the first time - that the steps would pass right by without the man noticing the two dark figures on the ground.

The footsteps continued, slow and methodical. Then they stopped. Christine opened her eyes to see that Edward had paused, staring hard in her direction. Christine felt her stomach sink as he moved towards them, raising his sword in a practiced motion.

"Show yourself," he ordered coldly.

Christine hesitated, but had no choice but to pull the hood from her face. Edward's expression changed from one of hard determination to surprise and dread. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Christine cut him off.

"Edward, listen to me. This is wrong. Look at him! He's just a boy," she whispered urgently, nodding towards the cowering figure still half-hidden beneath her cloak.

"You just had to get involved, didn't you? Christine, his life isn't something that you should be concerning yourself with at this second. They could kill you for this!" He hissed back, looking slightly sick.

"His life is absolutely my concern. Giving him up would be murder," she argued, eyes pleading.

"Not if letting him live would have worse results," Edward said grimly, looking at the boy warily.

"What could a child possibly do?" She exclaimed.

"Christine, he appeared here this morning as if from thin air. There is a woman in the king's service with the power of prophecy, and she claims that this boy will do terrible things in the future. He must have terrible magic if he can just appear in a guarded castle. Who knows what he'll do once he's grown," there was something almost like regret in Edward's voice, but his eyes were hard.

"Do you honestly believe that the future is written for us? I would rather trust the choices of a boy who is not yet grown than the insane babbling of a witch. How is it justice to try a child for a crime he has yet to commit, if he commits it at all? This is not a matter of justice. This is a simple matter of right and wrong. If you kill this boy, it will be murder, and his blood will be on your hands," Christine stated, pulling the shaking child closer towards her in an attempt at comfort.

"I can let you go before I turn him, but that is all I can do. Anything else is treason," Edward said simply, refusing to meet her eyes.

Christine lifted her chin stubbornly. "I'm not going anywhere," she replied quietly. "Treason to the crown is far better than treason to your morals. Edward, the night we met, I told you that you weren't what I expected. I believed that you might actually have some shred of honour. Please don't prove me wrong, I beg of you."

For once, Christine could not read what was on Edward's face. His jaw was set and still, with only his eyes revealing the multitude of thoughts whirring beneath the surface. For a moment, Christine almost believed that he would change his mind.

"Julian!" Edward shouted, moving to the front of the wagon.

Christine felt tears welling behind her eyelids as the boy let out a soft sob.

"Shh," Christine soothed, stroking his hair with trembling hands and cursing herself for being so idiotic. Anyone from the Alasdair family would be heartless and traitorous, and she'd known it from the start. Allowing herself to even entertain the idea that Edward was any different had been childish. That didn't mean that it didn't hurt.

"You found him?" Came the higher voice of the prince as he jogged towards his friend.

"Yes," Edward replied. Then, Christine felt someone rummaging in the wagon. "Here."

There was a noise of something smacking against flesh and a loud "oof".

"I could have you arrested for that!" The prince laughed.

"I was just having a little bit of fun. There's nothing here and I'm frankly exhausted from wandering around looking for a child who probably magicked himself out the same way he got in," Edward drawled, picking up something else from the cart.

"Don't you dare-" Smack! "Edward!"

Something came soaring over the wagon, clearly thrown from the prince's hand. It landed with a splat on the dirt a few meters away from Christine. From the smell, Christine guessed that it was an extremely mutilated tomato. It was nearly unrecognizable now after its second meeting with the ground.

"Missed by a mile! You've grown soft while I've been away," Edward chuckled.

"You are bloody lucky that you're my best friend, Edward. I should put you in the stocks-" Julian made another noise of disgust as another tomato made contact with the royal body. "Hanged!" He corrected.

Edward was now leaning against the wagon for support as he laughed. Julian was laughing too, making his way over to his friend.

"I gather you're right, you know," he commented. "About the boy? My father can be so unreasonable."

"You said it, not I," Edward agreed. "If-oof!"

Julian let out a burst of laughter. "How's that for growing soft?"

"Well, you were standing right beside me," Edward pointed out, and Christine could hear the grin in his voice. "I'd be willing to bet that the lads at the gate are bored as well. What do you say we each take half and finish this properly? My army against yours. I'd be willing to bet that you'll be proven as soft as one of the tomatoes that I threw so expertly at you."

"Challenge accepted!" Julian declared gleefully. "But _I_ get to choose who is on my team."

"Aye, you could use the advantage," agreed Edward. "I'll come along with the wagon. I'd best warm up my arms, not that I truly need an advantage."

"No, you just want something to blame when you lose," Julian countered, already jogging away.

A few seconds later, Edward reappeared in front of Christine, tomato colouring half of his face.

"Can you and the lad walk under the wagon while I pull it? The guards will be distracted by Julian, so you'd best take advantage of that and run the second we're outside the walls," Edward warned, rubbing at slime on his face with his sleeve.

"Thank you," Christine said seriously, trying to pour her sincerity into the two words.

"Don't get yourself caught," was her only reply.

"Before we go, do you happen to have a spare knife?" Christine asked.

"Do you know how to use it?"

"No, I want it to look at because it's pretty._ Of course I know how to use it_," she said impatiently.

Edward's mouth quirked as he tossed her one of the knives from his belt.

Getting out of the city was remarkably easy after that. By the time the sun was beginning to rise, Christine and the boy were already walking rapidly through the woods to the North of the city. The boy was looking more and more exhausted, though, which had Christine wondering if they ought to stop. Still, she was beginning to worry. What would happen when they discovered her missing the next morning? Would they kill her brother? She really needed to get back soon, but she couldn't very well abandon the boy.

Christine was so lost in her thoughts that it took her an embarrassing amount of time to realize that she was being followed. There was someone only meters behind her in the trees, stepping on twigs and leaves and making no effort to be quiet in his haste. She probably could have heard whoever it was from miles away if she'd been listening, but now she would guess he was only seconds away from sight.

Quickly, Christine pulled the boy to some thick brush on her right and pushed him down into it.

"Stay down," she hissed.

The second he was hidden, someone came crashing into her, knocking her to the ground. One of her arms was trapped so that she couldn't reach her knife, so she flailed around and picked up the first thing that came into reach: a rock. With a cry, she brought it down without hesitation onto whoever was on top of her, knocking him out cold.

With a grunt, she pushed him off of her. He was considerably heavier than he was. Now that her hands were free, she was able to push the hair out of her eyes that essentially had made her blind during the attack only to see...

Edward.

"Bloody hell," Christine muttered, rolling her eyes up to the fading stars.

He came to with a groan a short time later to find a pair of curious brown eyes and guilty blue ones staring down at him.

"What was that for?" He moaned, rubbing his head.

"You attacked me and I reacted," Christine defended herself tersely even as she knelt down to look at him carefully. "Follow my finger."

"What?" Edward exclaimed.

"No concussion," Christine muttered. "That's good," she added upon seeing his incredulous expression.

The boy looked from Edward to Christine in amazement. "Are you married?" He asked curiously.

"No!" Christine cried in disgust as Edward closed his eyes for a moment, possibly wondering what on earth he'd gotten himself into.

"So, where are we taking you, lad?" Asked Edward in an attempt to change the subject, looking at the boy cautiously as if he were nervous that he might grow another head.

"I live with... some spinsters to the North of here," he explained, beginning to draw a map in the dirt with his finger.

As he did so, Christine became increasingly aware of Edward's eyes studying her. She should've been used to it by now, but she still found the way he studied her disconcerting.

"I bribed your servants," Edward said after the boy had finished his map. "They are now telling the king that you have scarlet fever, a theory which I doubt anyone of importance will want to verify themselves."

"Thank you," Christine said, surprised at the gesture.

"If I am committing treason, I might as well do it properly." He smiled crookedly, before turning to the boy. "Well, let's get you back to your spinsters, lad."

The boy nodded with a hesitant smile before looking to Christine as though for protection. He clearly wasn't certain of what to think of Edward just yet. Edward's smile faded and he knelt down to the boy's level.

"I won't hurt you, boy. I just expect that you'll return the favour and not prove us wrong for helping you. That means no dark magic, alright?"

The boy looked utterly perplexed, but nodded anyway. Christine held back an unladylike snort. The poor child probably didn't even know a thing about dark magic.

"What your name, little one?" She asked gently, suddenly remembering that she still didn't know who the child she'd risked her life for was.

The boy smiled shyly up at her. "Rumplestiltskin."

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><p>Thanks for reading!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Don't get too excited, but this chapter includes slightly more adult content. There's nothing graphic, but there are some implications of sexual activity. If that's going to bother you, I would suggest that you don't read this one!

Thanks for reading!

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><p>The Present<p>

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><p>"Rumplestiltskin?" Emma breathed, absolutely floored.<p>

Killian nodded stiffly, a myriad of emotions flying across his face before settling into a grimace.

"Does he know?" She asked next, feeling almost as though she must have passed into the Twilight Zone.

"No," Killian said softly, staring absently at his hook.

Emma paused, uncertain of what to say next.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Demanded Emma finally. "Did you know who he was when you met?"

"I recognized the name the first time Milah spoke of him, yes. When he... murdered her, I confess that it never came to mind simply because I was too panicked. I saw her heart in his hand and all rational thought was impossible. I doubt that him knowing who my parents were would have stopped him, but still, the thought of what might have been has preyed on my mind for longer than I care to remember."

"And after that?" Emma prompted softly, trying to get him away from whatever thoughts were twisting his face into a mask of regret and pain.

"Well, it seemed like bad form, to speak plainly. Even if it weren't, it would have been useless," Killian said quietly. "I doubt that the crocodile has a conscience to be tortured by, and, at any rate, my parents' actions were not my own. Some wounds run too deeply to be healed by some tenuous past debt."

"I'm sorry," Emma replied, not sure of what else to say.

Killian smiled a pained smile. "There's no need to be. My mother wouldn't have been who she was if she'd let him die, and I loved her for who she was. In fact, my parents may never have fallen in love if not for their combined efforts to save the crocodile. Perhaps they would have lived to see grandchildren with their different lovers, and I would never have existed. Interesting how fate works, isn't it? She's a miserable creature who rejoices in torment. If my parents hadn't saved the crocodile, I'd never have been born. Milah would have lived, I assume, but not Bae. If he hadn't been born, neither would Henry. It seems that magic isn't the only thing that comes with a price."

Emma's head spun as the full impact of his words hit her. If Christine had made one different choice, if she'd ignored her own merciful instincts in the interests of self-preservation, a million lives would have been different. Would her own parents have existed? Would she? How could a single choice made by a single girl - almost a child, really - impact so many lives in the future? The whole concept was mind-boggling.

"Anyway, back to our dear crocodile," Killian continued with a sigh, eyes fading into some tenuous past that only he could see once again.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

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><p>"<em>Sweeter than roses, or cool evening breeze<em>

_On a warm flowery shore, was the dear kiss,_

_First trembling made me freeze,_

_Then shot like fire all o'er._

_What magic has victorious love!_

_For all I touch or see since that dear kiss,_

_I hourly prove, all is love to me._" *

As she finished her song, voice vibrating pleasantly through the wide open space of the woods, Rumplestiltskin let out a low whistle.

"How do you fit so many notes on one word?" He asked incredulously, eyes huge.

"Practice," Christine replied with a shrug, struggling to keep the spring out of her step. It felt amazing to be on her own again and to be_ outside_, without guards or concerts or stifling rooms. There was something about being outdoors that just made her want to sing. Or perhaps it was just her feeling something she had missed more than she cared to admit: freedom.

The boy looked at her skeptically and she couldn't help but laugh. "I'm quite serious. You have to learn to control your air and-"

Edward let out a groan. "Please, no technicalities," he begged jokingly. "They'll be wasted on those of us with no musical inclination."

"We should reach your spinsters later before noon, I imagine." Christine abruptly changed the subject, shooting Edward a disapproving look.

Rumplestiltskin nodded, looking put-out. Edward immediately looked to Christine to interpret the emotions of the child for him, something that had become habit over the past few days. Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead looking down at the boy kindly. "Is something troubling you?"

The boy shrugged, shuffling his feet a little bit on the dirt path. "The last time I was here, I had a father," I sniffed, rubbing at his eyes with his frankly appallingly filthy sleeve.

Christine stopped short. "My goodness, love, why didn't you say something?" She asked.

Rumplestiltskin shrugged, staring at his feet.

"I lost my father a short time ago as well," Christine said sympathetically, pulling the boy into her arms. "It's not easy, is it?"

"Was yours murdered as well?" Edward asked quietly, resting his hand gently on the Rumplestiltskin's shoulder.

Christine brought her head up with a snap to stare at him with narrowed eyes, but Edward didn't notice.

"He abandoned me," Rumplestiltskin sniffed. "He doesn't want me. And he took my doll."

"Oh, sweetheart," Christine murmured, forcing herself to return her attention to the distraught boy.

"Do you think that you... would you maybe... would you want to stay with me?" Rumplestiltskin asked, staring up at her with wet eyes. "I never had a mother before, and you're much nicer than my father," he added quickly, glancing at Edward.

Christine's stomach sank. "Don't you like the spinsters?" Questioned Edward, looking as lost as she felt with this new development.

Rumplestiltskin nodded. "Yes, but if you both stayed, then I'd have a _real_ family with a mother and a father."

Christine looked helplessly at the wet face in front of her, trying to push back the repulsion she felt at being lumped together with Edward after what he'd just insinuated.

"I'm afraid I can't," she told him quietly. "I'm sorry, but I have to go back; I have a brother whose life depends on it."

"It sounds as though your spinsters love you very much," added Edward awkwardly.

It took a while to soothe Rumplestiltskin, but eventually the tears stopped and the trio were able to continue their journey. When they dropped off the boy in front of his house, Christine had to blink back tears of her own.

"You stay out of trouble," Edward said gruffly, ruffling his hair affectionately.

After that, Rumplestiltskin reluctantly entered his house. Christine felt remotely better listening to the faint dialogue wafting out from the house, assured that the boy was in good hands.

"Shall we head back?" Edward asked gently.

Christine nodded stiffly and turned back towards the forest. For the next hour, Edward attempted to make conversation, only growing more and more confused as she answered with angry monosyllables.

"Did I do something that upset you?" He finally demanded. "I thought that we were-"

"Friends?" Asked Christine sarcastically, whirling around to face him.

"Are you crying?" Edward asked in surprise.

"No, I stopped about a minute ago," she snapped, rubbing at her red eyes violently.

"You're upset to part with the boy?" Edward guessed, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. When she flinched away, his brow furrowed. "What?"

"Was my father poisoned?" She demanded, stepping back to look him fully in the eye.

Confusion crossed Edward's face before giving way to realization. "You didn't know?"

"Did you murder him?"

Edward stared at Christine. Her eyes were hard, but her lower lip was trembling in a rare sign of vulnerability.

"No, I didn't," Edward sighed. "'I swear to you on my life that I was not involved in any way. However, I was aware of the plan."

"I don't understand. Why would they kill him? He didn't do anything but protect us," Christine whispered, hugging herself.

"Because anyone on your side is seen as a threat, and because hurting a loved one is the easiest way to hurt an enemy," Edward explained, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"So his death was my fault," Christine faltered.

"No, it wasn't," Edward said firmly, pulling her into a tight hug. After a moment's hesitation, she hugged him back.

"You're right. It was the murderer's fault," Christine sighed sadly. "I miss him," she added in a small voice.

"You loved him very much," Edward realized.

"Of course I did. Don't you love your father?"

Edward hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I do. He's never been a very affectionate father and I'll admit that his lust for power often leads him to forget his honour, but I still love him in some ways."

"I loved my father in every way," Christine replied. "Well, not quite _every_ way," she conceded, pulling away from Edward to shoot him an almost wicked grin.

Edward laughed heartily. "I should hope not."

"Thank you," Christine said suddenly.

Her companion tilted his head in a silent question.

"For telling me. I... I'm glad to know," she said. "Maybe now I can feel some closure."

"I hope so. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry that he died," Edward told her seriously.

She smiled sadly. Apologies wouldn't bring her father back. However, coming from Edward, the sentiment meant a lot.

"I think this calls for a happy song," Christine decided, pushing away the sadness to deal with at a more convenient date. There were few things she despised more than feeling sad.

"_I was born of Geordie parents, one day when I was young_

_That's how the Geordie dialect became me native tongue_

_That I was a pretty baby, me mother she would vow_

_The girls all ran to kiss me, well I wish they'd do it now._

_Oh I wish they'd do it now, oh I wish they'd do it now_

_I've got itches in me britches-_" **

Edward stopped dead in his tracks, his face turning red as maple leaves in autumn.

"What, did you think that I only sing those horrid posh court songs?" Christine giggled.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Why does it not surprise me that your mother sang that sort of song?" Emma said drily.<p>

Killian shot her a - as he would say - "devilishly handsome" smirk.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"Oh, good lord. You're a virgin, aren't you?" Christine asked, suppressing a smile. "How old are you?"<p>

If possible, Edward turned even more red. "Nineteen last month."

"Happy belated birthday," Christine replied, a grin bursting through in spite of herself.

"You're not," Edward concluded after a moment, looking surprised.

"Pardon?"

"A virgin," he was more and more sure of himself the wider Christine's smirk spread.

"Perhaps not," she conceded, eyes twinkling in merriment.

"When?" Blurted Edward.

"On my sixteenth birthday," she said matter-of-factly. "With the tenor I was singing opposite. Oh, don't look so upset-"

Edward's face now looked like it had reached boiling point. "I'm not-"

"It was at least partially out of pity. The poor man cracked on opening night. Sounded like he'd fallen off the bloody stage."

"You made love to someone for the first time out of pity?" Edward asked incredulously. Christine realized at that point that Edward's charm was not entirely trained courtly mannerisms. The poor man was clearly a hopeless romantic.

"Why, thinking of giving it a try? You'll have to try pretty hard to beat the embarrassment of dear Raoul-"

"I'm sure that I could with high enough stakes," he countered, avoiding her eyes.

"And what would you consider the height of these stakes?" Christine replied, stopping to shoot him a look up through her eyelashes.

"Far too high to risk embarrassing myself until your image of me was beyond repair," Edward murmured seriously, face still faintly red. "No, with stakes as high as these, I would far rather earn your love through an act of courage," he added shyly.

"Like what?" She breathed. Their faces were now only inches apart.

"Like this," he replied, leaning down to press his lips against hers.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma was blushing, and it was embarrassing the hell out of her. "Okay, first of all, there is no way that your parents told you this. And second of all, I really, really don't want to hear about your parents having-"<p>

"Not to worry, Swan, they only shared a kiss," Killian said, amused.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"Not bad for a virgin," Christine gasped, rummaging for her abandoned clothes-<p>

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Killian!" Emma snapped.<p>

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"You may be a virgin, but you've kissed before," Christine smiled against his lips.<p>

"A kitchen maid back home," he agreed. "Father sent her away after he caught us kissing a few weeks later."

"Mmm," Christine hummed, for once feeling quite comforted by having his eyes glued on her own. Up close, they weren't just blue-grey. They had flecks of gold and brown and a rim of dark blue like a stormy ocean. She could see every detail of his face, including a few freckles she'd never seen before.

"What?" He asked with a smile.

"You're beautiful," she breathed.

"That's what I'm supposed to say, I believe," he murmured, kissing her again. She found herself sagging against him, feeling safer than she had since she'd left the Southern Isles.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I get the idea. What happened next?"<p>

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>The return journey was a pleasant one, full of polite caresses and stolen looks. Christine snuck back into the palace with Edward's help, but then, after a tender kiss goodbye, he left again. They both agreed that it would be suspicious if they came back to the palace at exactly the same time. Edward's cover story was that he was searching for Rumplestiltskin in nearby villages and woods. He decided that he would "continue" doing that for another week or so.<p>

A few days later, Christine emerged looking flushed and thin, but, as the doctor assured the king, no longer contagious. No one questioned her story, although Christine frequently felt the weight of Lord Alasdair's gaze. She wasn't certain whether he didn't believe her, though, or whether she'd just forgotten how disdainful his looks were.

It was significantly harder to hide her affection for Edward when he returned than she'd anticipated. Over dinner, she caught his eye and started to blush. Fortunately, the king only remarked that he believed she'd had too much wine. However, Edward's smiling also caught his eye.

"I'm just pleased to be back in your presence, your grace," he explained with a polite incline of his head.

Christine had to fake-choke on her chicken to cover her ungainly laughter.

Then, of course, she'd had to sing. Everyone remarked that they had never heard her sound better. Edward raised his glass to her in a silent toast, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

As she was walking back to her room, strong arms pulled her into an alcove. Suddenly, she was swept into a soft, delicious kiss.

"Did you miss me?" Edward asked softly, his whisper dancing across her face.

"Edward, you have to be more careful! Someone could see," she laughed softly.

Footsteps approached the alcove.

"How dare you insult me. I'm certainly far more hygienic than you, _sailor_," Christine hissed.

The footsteps passed by.

"That's a good strategy, actually," Edward murmured, pulling her closer towards him. "We could have a great deal of fun with this."

Fun was perhaps an understatement.

"I would challenge you to a duel, but I fear that I am too much of a gentleman to insult a lady's intelligence by implying that she had a chance of beating me. Perhaps a duel of wits?"

"I would agree, but, as a general rule, I find it to be bad form to engage in a duel of any sort with an unarmed man."

"After living so long in the jungle, it must be difficult for you to do such things as actually wear shoes, bathe, or dance. Tell me, was it hard to learn when you returned to civilization?"

"It was relatively easy, considering that there are men like you who could make an inebriated bear look graceful."

By day they insulted each other with glee, only pulling each other into the occasional corner for a kiss, while by night they complimented each other on their wit. Edward would sneak into Christine's room nightly for them to talk about everything, and it seemed that they only grew closer the more time they spent together. Christine discovered that Edward was not only charming, but kind, honourable, and intelligent. She was continually amazed by his capacity to listen and even open up her mind to possible alternative ways of thought when they broached a topic she was already decided upon. For his part, Edward enjoyed Christine's vivacity, kindness, and strong opinions. Something about two people from such different backgrounds allowed for an intellectual relationship of continual growth, which was perhaps why Christine found herself falling in love far more quickly than she imagined.

Perhaps that could explain why, on her seventeenth birthday, she took a calculated risk.

That night, as Edward snuck into her room, he found Christine waiting with her cloak already on.

"For my birthday, I want you to meet someone," she said brusquely, turning him around. "Here, wear this." She tossed him a second cloak.

Edward's brow furrowed in confusion.

His confusion only grew as they left the palace.

"Not to worry, I do this at least once a week. A guard follows me, but I'm never stopped," Christine explained.

"Is this a kind way of telling me that you have a mistress?" Edward joked, mouth twitching.

"Hush," she said.

Her sister was exactly where she was expecting, sitting at their usual table. She'd clearly been expecting Christine as well, because a cup of whiskey was already sitting in her usual spot. Christine couldn't help but admire how beautiful her sister had grown up to be. Her skin reminded Christine of black velvet, her eyes were large and framed by long eyelashes, and Christine was almost envious of how much more shapely her sister was in comparison to her own stick figure.

"Sari, allow me to introduce Edward," Christine said with a smile. "Edward, this is my sister."

Edward looked between them in confusion, clearly wondering how it was possible for them to be related.

"Adopted sister," Sari clarified with a shy smile, standing. "It's a pleasure. I've heard so much about you."

Edward bowed politely in greeting. Sari, after a moment's hesitation, bounded forward and squeezed him in a quick, nervous hug.

"I don't want us on bowing terms," she explained, blushing slightly.

Initially, Christine had been nervous to introduce her sister to Edward, if only because they were such opposite personalities. Where Edward was mostly calm and assertive, Sari was flighty and shy to almost muteness among strangers. However, to Christine's surprise, they seemed to get along; Edward's warm mannerisms seemed to draw her sister out of her shell remarkably quickly.

"Chris, I have a present for you!" Sari squeaked about two drinks later, clapping her hands to her mouth.

"You shouldn't have," Christine said earnestly.

"Here!" Sari offered her something small and silver (after dropping it on the floor twice in her haste to pick it up).

"Oh! That's beautiful," Christine breathed.

It was a silver ring with a large, smooth red stone in the center.

"I know it's probably quite common for palace standards, but I thought it was pretty," Sari said quickly.

"I love it," Christine gushed, drawing her sister into a warm embrace.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma looked pointedly at Killian's right hand.<p>

"Aye, it's the one that looks slightly less, for lack of a better term, pirate-ish," Killian acknowledged.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"You know, I was really thinking that I was actually correct about the mistress idea. Not that you had one, of course, but that your father did. I mean, besides your sister also being a gorgeous woman, the physical similarities between you are rather lacking. I just couldn't understand how you could be sisters unless you were twins, and, even then, I had never heard of two people with light skin giving birth to a child with black skin," Edward said, helping Christine take her cloak off back in her room.<p>

"I am sorry that I never introduced you sooner-"

"But you wanted to ensure her safety. I understand. I would feel the same way about Jayne," he conceded with a crooked smile.

Christine frowned slightly. "You know it's not that I don't trust you, because I do-"

"But you have fears about losing your family, and you don't want to take unnecessary risks. I understand," he finished for her.

Christine buried her head in his shoulder, feeling completely at peace. Something about having someone who knew her so completely was liberating. Who knew that their first kiss seven months ago would lead to this?

"You didn't tell me it was your birthday," he commented. "If I'd known, I would have got you something."

"You didn't need to," Christine murmured.

"I know why you didn't tell me," Edward said matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"Because I know what you were doing at this time a year ago," he teased.

"Oh hush," Christine murmured, placing her lips firmly against his. When she pulled away, it was with a sigh. "My father was alive last year."

Edward pulled away to examine her thoroughly, tracing a finger gently along her jawline. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," she said, surprised at how honestly it felt coming from her lips. Of course, the grief of losing her father would never fully go away, and her brother's situation continually preyed on her mind. However, having Edward was a blessing that she was grateful for every day.

"You know," she began thoughtfully, "I think I know what you could give me for my birthday."

The next morning, Christine woke up feeling thoroughly content, nestled gently against Edward's chest.

"Good morning," she whispered, looking up lazily into her lover's sleep-addled eyes. With his hair sticking up in all directions, he looked almost like a little boy.

"Last night," Edward began, clearing his throat.

Christine glanced up at him nervously.

"What did I do that was embarrassing enough to beat Raoul?"

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Well, at least you didn't make it graphic," Emma sighed, sounding vaguely impressed at his self-restraint.<p>

Killian looked offended. "Swan, do use your common sense. These are my parents we're talking about. There are some boundaries no man should cross, or _want_ to cross."

"So, your parents were pretty happy, but I'm guessing it didn't last?" Emma prompted softly.

"I suppose you recall the resistance that my aunt mentioned to my mother? Well, while my parents were busy falling in love, the resistance was busy planning something else."

"Freeing your mother?" Guessed Emma.

"Ruining lives," Killian said quietly, eyes haunted.

* * *

><p>*By an anonymous author.<p>

** English trad.


	7. Chapter 7

The Past

* * *

><p>"On this day, the tenth of January of the year 1793, I speak to you as only an equal. On behalf of myself and my brother, I... fully consent... to give up any tenuous claim that our family is believed to have on this kingdom or any other. I... acknowledge that King Clayton, the first of his name, and his heirs are... the true and rightful monarchs. Believing what I do, I must beg you all to immediately cease all actions that could be seen as treason. If these actions are not stopped, I... agree that the death penalty is the only fitting punishment for such crimes, as outlined by our laws, and... support the king in all actions he sees fit to take."<p>

Christine swallowed hard as she finished, fighting against the tears beginning to well up under her eyelids. She could barely hear herself think over the commotion in the packed square outside of the palace. At this point, she was fairly certain that the only thing keeping the crowds from ripping her apart was the considerable height of the stone balcony on which she stood. After this speech, she was clearly a traitor to their cause, wasn't she? Hating her would be a mild reaction under the circumstances.

That was why the words that she could make out from the roar of sound below were confusing her:

"How have they threatened you, princess?"

"Long may you live, my lady!"

"Down with the king!"

"Tyrant!"

With a sideways glance at Lord Alasdair, standing just behind her in the shadow of the doorway, Christine shook her head slightly.

Guards were beginning to arrest particularly vocal members of the crowd. Some of them were reacting violently and people were starting to scream as blood splattered the snow.

"Please, stop!" Christine begged, beginning to panic.

"Enough," Lord Alasdair snapped, yanking Christine back into the shelter of the castle. He didn't let her go until he'd pulled her into an empty room, pushing her down roughly into a chair.

"I... I did what you asked of me," Christine began, ashamed of the slight pleading note in her voice. "I said exactly what you asked me to. My brother-"

"Your brother will pay the price of your failure," Lord Alasdair interrupted coolly. "That last outburst of yours made it clear whose side you were truly on, if it wasn't already clear from your actions. Considering the time you spend performing, one would think that you would be more capable of making a convincing speech."

"But I did _make_ the speech," Christine argued frantically.

Lord Alasdair leaned forward until his face was inches away from her own. "Not good enough." Christine shivered as his breath blew across her face. As he turned and left without a word, a tear traced its way down Christine's face and fell to the floor.

* * *

><p>That night, Christine was not invited to dine with the king. Instead of feeling frightened by this, she only felt a dull sort of relief. She didn't feel like getting out of bed, never mind making herself look presentable.<p>

All she could think about was Connor: a toddler with messy blonde hair running towards her unsteadily and reaching up his hands in a wordless demand for her to pick him up, a little boy with wet blue eyes and a snot-covered face looking for her to soothe his tears, an older version of her brother screaming and begging her to not let him be taken away...

"'I hear a baboon on the Southern Isles is looking for his face back'?! Is that really the best insult you could come up with?"

Christine felt her entire body tense up.

Edward stopped mid-laugh. "Christine?" He asked cautiously.

"I think I need to be alone tonight," she replied coldly, not even bothering to look in his direction.

Perhaps predictably, Edward hovered by the door uncertainly. "Are you alright?"

"Please leave. I would find it morally reprehensible to spend any time with someone related to Lord Alasdair this evening." Christine knew that she was being unfair, but there was something hard knotted in her stomach that refused to let her be reasonable.

The foot of the bed sunk slightly as a very concerned Edward sat down on the edge. "What did he do?"

"He's going to kill my brother," she whispered, ashamed to hear her voice break.

"They wouldn't do that, surely. Don't they need him to threaten you?" Edward tried to reason after a pause.

Christine sat up, eyes sparkling with tears and anger. "It's hardly any better if they're going to torture him, Edward! Do you know what it's like having a loved one's blood on your hands?! Every time someone does something against the king supposedly in my name, my brother is getting hurt. Your father has kindly informed me of this, and there's nothing I can do to fix it! I say and do things that I don't believe in just to keep Connor alive, and for what? Nothing! Connor is still getting hurt and there's nothing I can do! You have no idea what that's like, and do you want to know the reason why? Because your bloody family is responsible for it!"

Bright blue eyes met pale blue-grey, and Christine's shouts were replaced by a heavy silence.

"My family isn't me," Edward finally said.

Christine's lower lip started to quiver. "I know."

With a sigh, Edward pulled Christine towards him and Christine buried her face into his chest, sobs wracking her body.

* * *

><p>Christine no longer snuck out to see Sari. She didn't dare put her sister at risk or herself under suspicion, and she imagined that she probably wouldn't be allowed to leave anymore even if she wanted to.<p>

Life fell into a routine that was even more unbearable than it had been initially. She still ate with the king most nights and performed almost every night, but now she would also have to spend several hours a week being threatened or manipulated by Edward's father or the king. The two men called them "political meetings", but the title was misleading, particularly since, as Christine repeatedly tried to tell them, she had no control over the political situation.

She was becoming certain that she was losing her mind, and the proof appeared one day as she was getting ready to sing.

There was a face in the mirror that wasn't her own.

Christine screamed and jumped away from the mirror, but when a servant ran into the room, the face was no longer there.

The next time she saw the figure was when she was waiting for Edward in her room. She was changing into her nightdress when the door creaked open only an inch. Christine paused, her dress half-off.

"Edward?" She called hesitantly.

There was no answer, only a glint of a grey eye through a hole in a black mask. Christine stared back, shaking slightly. The figure stayed there for at least ten minutes, before disappearing into the shadows. When Christine ran to the door, there was no one in the hallway.

Next, she was walking to dinner and she had the strangest sense that she was being watched. She whirled around and saw only a shadow from around the corner, but she recognized the shape of it.

A few days later in her room, she was brushing her long dark hair and singing softly to herself when she saw the figure appear behind her in the mirror. She froze as he walked towards her, reaching into a drawer for the knife Edward had given her on their adventure the year before.

"Who are you?" She snarled, whirling around to face the figure.

He didn't respond except to stare at her with his cold eyes. He began to walk towards her, slowly, like a cat might stalk a mouse.

"I will kill you if you come near me," Christine threatened, barely managing to keep the waver out of her voice.

The figure didn't even hesitate. He moved towards her and paused just out of arm's reach. Christine was almost panting in fear, but he wasn't moving. His eyes just bore into hers with the same unblinking, almost reptilian intensity as before.

Then, cautiously, he stepped forward again. Christine forgot about the knife as he moved so that his forehead was almost touching hers. Then, deliberately, he tilted his head to the side and lifted his mask slightly, running his tongue along her neck. Christine shuddered and tried to bring the knife up, but the strange specter had her hand in a death grip.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the specter left as quickly as he had come, leaving Christine trembling and gasping for air. All he left behind was the sickly scent of dried flowers.

She was certain that she was losing her mind, but what figment of her imagination could touch her like that?

It wasn't until March, though, that disaster truly struck.

Christine was singing an aria when suddenly, something hit the candle beside her. It fell over neatly onto the curtains, which the fire began to devour with crackles and snaps of pleasure. Christine stared in the direction the object had come from and saw a black-clad figure just outside of the doors. Their eyes locked, and it was Edward who leapt up to pull her away from the flaming fabric before it fell down onto her.

Spurred into action, Christine pulled him after the people fleeing the hall. Instead of following them, though, she pulled him up a circular flight of stairs to the top of one of the castle's many inner walls. She slammed the door, searching frantically for a lock or bolt but not finding one.

"What are you doing?" Asked Edward, baffled.

"Making sure no one can follow us," Christine responded urgently, before her eyes widened with a sudden realization. "Unless he's already here..."

She began sprinting across the wall, eyes darting around to anything that could hide the form of a man.

"Christine!" Edward grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. His tone suggested that this was definitely not the first time he'd called her name to get her attention.

"There's a man. He's following me, and tonight he tried to kill me." Christine's voice was low and frantic.

"What are you talking about?" Edward's brows furrowed in confusion.

"He's been everywhere, Edward, everywhere! He's been watching me. At least a dozen times I've seen him, but he's probably been there more than that. If I don't see him, I see his shadow... he's always dressed in black, with a mask and a hood. Tonight, I saw his shadow, he shot the arrow that hit the candle-"

"Nothing hit it. It just fell over," Edward interrupted, perplexed.

"No, there was something that hit it. If not an arrow, a-a stone, or something. Perhaps he had a slingshot-"

"Christine, listen to yourself-"

"I know that it sounds insane, but he touched me, Edward. I know that he's real, and now he's trying to kill me. He must be working for the king or for your father, and since having me here isn't enough to solve their rebellion problem, they need to get rid of me-"

"Christine!" Edward interrupted, lifting her chin gently. "I know you've been terribly stressed lately, and stress can make your mind play tricks on you. I'm certain that it's natural to be paranoid in a situation like yours-"

Christine backed away, eyes suddenly hard. "You don't believe me."

"I didn't say that. I believe that you could have seen this, but that doesn't necessarily make it real. Surely someone else would've noticed him too," Edward attempted to reason with her.

"You don't believe me," she repeated softly, backing away from him and looking for all the world like a cornered animal.

Edward sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in frustration.

When he opened them, Christine had sunk to the floor, her shoulders shaking.

"Please don't cry," Edward said softly, moving towards her and pulling her up into his arms.

"Let go of me," she sobbed, but she relaxed into his body.

"Shh," he whispered, running soothing fingers through the curls framing her face.

He held her for a while as she cried for longer than he'd ever heard her cry before. In his experience, Christine's tears were either very subtle or explosive. In either case, they were always brief. He'd figured out long ago that Christine preferred to keep tears to herself if at all possible, and that was why such a huge display of distress was causing him a distinct amount of unease.

"You know that I would never let anyone hurt you, right?" He murmured into her hair, once her sobbing had died down slightly.

"That's a ridiculous p-promise to make," Christine chided, face still buried in his shoulder.

"It's true, though," he promised, pulling her in more tightly. "If this ghost of yours does exist, I'll destroy him. If you don't first, of course."

Christine let out a soft, wet laugh at that.

"I think your shirt is wet," she said softly.

Edward's reply was to gently kiss her forehead before leaning his own head against hers.

"Even if it was against the king, or my father, or Julian, I would do whatever I could to keep you safe," he added almost reverently.

For a moment, the young couple just stayed like that. Alone on the wall, with a light dusting of late March snow falling onto them, they could almost pretend that they were somewhere else. It was a rare moment of peace that neither one was eager to break.

"Edward?" Christine murmured finally, looking him seriously in the eye. His breath caught at the sight of her. She was always beautiful to him, but somehow she looked even more beautiful at this moment. Her normally pale face was flushed from her tears, her eyes large, glistening, and reflecting the tapestry of stars above them.

"Mmm?"

"Do you love me?" She hesitated slightly.

"Yes, of course I do. You know that," he said with a small smile.

"Do you think... that you'll always feel this way?" She asked, eyes searching his.

"Yes, I do," he said seriously. "I would give you the world if I could."

She relaxed against him with a soft sigh. She looked exhausted.

"But, as giving you the world isn't very realistic and, from what I understand, you don't really want it anyway-" Christine laughed "-perhaps I could give you the next best thing?"

Christine raised an eyebrow in the mischievous way that he was now familiar with. "And what would that be?"

"Freedom?" He suggested, and the word sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the falling snow. "We could do it, you know. We could leave out the passage you've used before. There are never any guards, and, even if there were now, we both know how to hold our own in combat."

Christine smiled painfully. "Even if we could, Connor-"

"What if I stole the king's royal seal? We could write a letter ordering his release, deliver it ourselves, and have him free before they even knew we were gone," Edward suggested, eyes lighting up with excitement at the idea.

Her insides twisting painfully with something that felt suspiciously hopeful, Christine bit her lip. "Do you actually think it could be possible?"

Edward laughed suddenly. "Yes, I do. I think we could do it. Then, who knows? We could live in the forest, or catch a ship to those islands you love so well."

Christine stepped onto her toes and kissed the man passionately. "I would have no objections to spending the rest of my life with you, regardless of where."

"And I will keep you safe from anyone who dares threaten you again-"

"You don't need to do that, Edward. Just love me and never leave me," she said earnestly, throwing her arms around his neck. "Besides, I may need to be the one protecting you," she added with a hint of a smirk.

Edward grinned right back. "I can't disagree with that, my love."

Then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, he knelt down onto the snow.

"My darling Christine, so that we do not live together scandalously as an unmarried couple, perhaps this would be a prudent time to-"

He was cut off by a swift kiss.

"You're ruining my proposal," he protested.

"You knew the answer anyway," she cut him off.

"Still, I'd like to say at least a few things, so behave," he replied sternly, gently pushing her back up. She sighed dramatically, but there was a smile teasing at the edges of her mouth.

"Christine, I swear to love you for as long as I live and to protect you to the best of my ability. I swear to never leave your side, to help you carry all of your burdens, and to make you smile as often as I can. If these terms are agreeable to you, will you do me the greatest honour of consenting to be my wife?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Nothing would make me happier."

With a smile, Edward pulled a plain silver band from his own finger and slipped it onto Christine's. "There. Now it's official."

The two returned to Christine's room, smiling rapturously at the other. Neither one noticed the dark figure in the shadows with the cold grey eyes as they left. The figure himself lingered for several minutes afterwards, face unreadable thanks to the mask, but with a body that radiated with fury. Finally, he disappeared down the staircase. The only thing that remained to show that he was ever there was the subtle, sickly scent of lavender.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Killian paused when Emma's jaw dropped.<p>

"Wait... your mother's stalker was your _grandfather_?!"

"And you thought having Regina in your family was a nightmare," Killian teased.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>The plan was to meet at midnight the next night in Christine's room and make their escape. Christine was nervous - so much could go wrong - but pushed it to the side and attempted to go about her day with some normalcy.<p>

That normalcy was wrecked by mid-afternoon when guards swept into her room and arrested her.

By midnight, she was in a cell in a prison just outside of the city.

_Please, God, let this not be because Edward was caught, _Christine thought, huddled in a ball on the cold floor.

Meanwhile, Edward was sailing out with the next tide.


	8. Chapter 8

The Past

* * *

><p>Christine slept the first of many nights in prison badly. Her cell was small and dirty, with only some straw on the floor. The cold bled through the dirt and stones and straw and her thin blue dress, and several times she had to bite back a scream when a rat scurried past. She was fairly certain that the straw on her floor had been the home of a family of rats before it was hers, and they didn't seem to be taking her intrusion well. In addition, the smell in the prison was horrible: a cross between sweat, human waste, dampness, and rot.<p>

Worst of all, though, was the man on her right. He would yell and scream or talk or sing to himself at alternate intervals. When Christine had finally begged him to stop, he'd looked at her as if he couldn't see her at all.

"He's mad, you know," the man on her left said. He had been in prison for at least a few weeks, judging by the length of his beard.

Christine blinked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Lost his mind. It only took him a night or two. It's the rats," he continued conversationally, threading his arms through the bars between their cells.

As if the name of their species was a summons, several rats emerged from the straw behind Christine and scurried to other cells. The man on her right let out a scream and started rocking, tucked into a tiny ball.

"What are you in here for?" Her sane neighbour asked casually, as if nothing had happened.

"Existing, I suppose," Christine sighed after a moment of thought, pulling her knees tightly to her chest protectively.

The man beside her let out a hearty laugh. "The worst crime of all," he agreed, wiping his dark eyes with filthy fingers.

"How about you?"

"Accused of plotting to overthrow the king," he said with a shrug.

"Did you?" Christine asked, staring at her toes. They had taken her shoes the night before, and her feet were already freezing.

The man snorted. "No, but the bloody king is paranoid. Just trying to teach me a lesson. I'm sure I'll be back at court within the month."

Christine let out a shriek as whiskers brushed against her leg.

"Oh God," she moaned, jumping to her feet. "I can't... I-"

Her sane neighbour looked her over. "You'd better learn to deal with that, or you'll turn into our friend there in no time," he nodded towards the rocking man, now muttering very quickly and inaudibly to himself. "I'm Gavin, by the way."

"Christine," she said weakly. "How do you... um... deal with this? You aren't mad."

He grinned. "I just befriended my enemy, so to speak. I christened all of the rats, made up their life stories, that sort of thing."

Christine was definitely rethinking her assessment of Gavin's sanity.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he added as if reading her mind.

A rat skittered across her bare foot and she closed her eyes, doing the first thing that came to mind.

"_Rose, Rose, Rose red,_

_Shall I ever see thee wed?_

_I will marry at thy will, sire,_

_At thy will._"*

Even the man to her right seemed to quiet down to listen to her soft singing. She repeated the song multiple times until she felt relatively calm. Gavin nodded his approval afterwards and Christine smiled grimly. It looked as though she'd found her strategy, and she hadn't even had to resort to befriending rats.

Over the next few days, some prisoners became brave enough to request certain songs. If she knew the songs, she always obliged, filling the dark space with melancholy tunes that often enough moved the other prisoners to tears. Even the jailer and guards would pause to listen.

She estimated that she had been there for just over a week when the man on her right fell silent. Christine tried to coax him into eating his meagre daily delivery of bread, but he just stared at her blankly. He died several days later, and the cell next to her became sadly empty.

Christine sang several songs for him as a makeshift funeral service and shed a few tears, but the next week she became grateful for the empty cell next to her when she became sick. She was able to push the vomit-soaked straw over into the next cell, which at least made things more bearable. The illness went on for over a week, and Christine began to feel horribly sore and weak.

On the ninth morning she woke Gavin up with her retching, he looked at her appraisingly.

"What?" She panted, leaning her head against the metal bars.

"I'm guessing congratulations are in order," he commented drily.

"To the rats for inevitably getting their straw back?" She muttered, thinking of how much fun the rats would have with two empty cells.

"No," Gavin said, sounding amused. "To you, mother."

"What in the bloody name of-" His words sunk in, and she felt her queasy stomach drop to her toes. "Bloody hell," she groaned, resisting the urge to slam her head repeatedly against the wall.

Gavin raised his eyebrows at the string of curses that followed, looking impressed.

"Do you really think that's appropriate language to use around an unborn child?" He commented sarcastically.

In response, Christine improvised a song of how she would graphically murder Gavin if the bars were to spontaneously disappear, earning her loud laughs and shouts of approval from the other cells. She felt bad about it afterwards, but she supposed that she could now blame her irritability on pregnancy.

Fortunately, the sickness eventually passed. Christine spent her days singing to her growing mid-section so that she could forget her fears of giving birth in such horrible conditions. If she forgot about that part, then it was easy for her to daydream about her baby.

"I hope you look like your father, but have your mama's brains," she cooed softly, rubbing her hand over her front. Gavin snorted.

The first time she felt the baby move, she almost cried. Then she sang it a song, as she was now in the habit of doing. If she thought too much, it was just too difficult to function. That was why she didn't think about what had become of Connor or Edward or Sari, but instead just thought about each meandering melody line as it floated through the oppressive jail. It also helped to relieve the constant boredom and discomfort. By the time the baby moved inside of her, it was summer. Now, instead of shivering her nights away, Christine sweated, too hot to barely even move.

By the time she turned eighteen, her torso had swelled massively. Christine imagined that it wouldn't be much more than a month before the baby came, a thought that both thrilled her and terrified her.

Of course, having no calendar in the jail, she would have had no idea that it was her birthday at all if not for the unexpected visitor who delivered her dinner instead of the regular jailer.

"Sari?" Gasped Christine.

The woman shrieked, then started crying.

"Oh my God, Christine!"

Christine bit back a teary smile. She wondered what in particular had caused her sister's exclamation. She imagined she was quite a sight after months and months without a bath in a filthy jail cell, but, then again, perhaps it was the surprise of seeing her with child that had caused Sari's tears.

"What are you doing here?" Christine demanded, suddenly afraid. She reached her hand through the bars to grasp her sister's, needing the physical contact more than she could fully express.

Sari blushed slightly, avoiding her eyes. "Well, since I last saw you, I sort of... got married."

Christine's jaw dropped. "I suppose you couldn't let me get married before you," she eventually managed to joke. "Who's the lucky man?"

"Well..." Sari's voice trailed off in embarrassment.

"Yes?" Christine prompted.

"Your jailer!" Sari blurted, biting her lip.

Christine closed her eyes in dread. "You didn't."

"He's not such a terrible man, at least not to me. He's drunk most of the time. And, now, I'm able to see you to wish you a happy birthday. And maybe I'll be able to get you out eventually, once I think of how to do it, and then I won't even have to lay eyes on him again," Sari spoke very quickly, looking as though she expected a harsh rebuke.

"Oh, Sari, you shouldn't have done that," Christine whispered, tears filling her eyes.

"Well, I had to do something. You're my sister. And now, I'm doubly glad that I did. At the very least, maybe I can help you when you go into labour."

Sari proceeded to tell her what she knew of Edward. Apparently, Lord Alasdair had told the king of Edward's plot, although how he found out, Sari was uncertain.

"They shipped him off to an island prison. They left the same day you were arrested," she finished sadly.

Christine swallowed hard. "At least if he's there, he wasn't executed. That means he's probably still alive." It felt as though a significant weight had been lifted off of her shoulders with the realization.

"I can't linger here too long, or my husband will become suspicious. I'll come as often as I can, though," Sari promised, squeezing her sister's hand in a reluctant farewell.

Sari kept her promise, and, as much as Christine hated the thought of her sister sacrificing anything for her, she fully appreciated her sister's presence during labour.

Her son arrived just over two weeks later, on the seventh of December, 1973.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Are you alright, love?" Killian paused to ask.<p>

Emma had to take a moment to think before responding. "Yeah. I'm just feeling... lucky, I guess."

Since meeting Henry, Emma had thought back to her own pregnancy far more often than ever before. It had certainly not been a pleasant time for her, especially because she knew that there was no way that she could keep her baby. Her childhood made the idea of putting her own baby up for adoption appalling, but keeping the baby would be unbearably selfish when she knew nothing about parenting and had no one to support her. Hell, she didn't even have a job.

Oddly, hearing about Christine made her realize just how good she'd had it. Yes, she was alone and pregnant. Nevertheless, her living conditions were fine, she had a release date, she had enough to eat, she had medication to help her through labour, and she had the option of giving her child up since she couldn't provide for him.

Christine had been even younger than her when she gave birth, and she did it in horrendous conditions with no medical staff or painkillers. The thought made Emma feel almost guilty.

If Killian knew how she was feeling, which he most likely did, he didn't say anything. Instead, he offered her a small, understanding smile and carried on.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Her singing teacher at boarding school had told her that most opera singers had an easier time with labour because they used the necessary muscles on a regular basis to sing. Christine shuddered to think of what a difficult labour would be like if hers was "easy".<p>

"I love you, Liam," she whispered softly to her new baby after Sari had left, cradling him gently to her chest.

"Good name," Gavin commented from beside her, a smile distinguishable from underneath his now very long beard.

"It was my grandfather's," Christine explained softly. "The name of a king."

"He's a homely little fellow," her companion chuckled, peering through the bars.

"All newborns look a little bit strange, but I think that he's quite handsome considering he was inside of me just yesterday," she smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the infant's head.

Soft lullabies replaced her previous songs now that she had her son. She rocked him and fed him and, for the first time since coming to prison, didn't feel quite so alone.

"Considering that all you do is cry, I honestly can't see how I love you so much," Christine muttered several weeks later, absolutely exhausted. Liam looked up at her with eyes that were far too intelligent and even that coaxed a sunny smile out of his mother.

The next change in her routine came when she estimated Liam to be a month old.

She was humming quietly to her son when loud footsteps echoed from down the hall. Tension automatically ran through her body, and she clutched Liam closer to her chest. What if someone was coming to take him away from her?

It turned out that they had come for Gavin.

"The king wants you back at court," one guard informed him in a bored voice.

Gavin looked startled. "He does?"

When the guard nodded, he suddenly looked at Christine frantically.

"Take care of Martha? I think she's going to have babies soon," he murmured, glancing towards his pile of straw that he tended to share with one fat rat in particular.

"Yes, I will, but, Gavin... wait!"

He paused as he was leaving, even as the guards shot her a dirty look.

"I don't know if you're familiar with the king's advisor, Lord Alasdair, but I need you to do something for me. Please, I beg you, try to find his wife or his daughter and inform them that I have given birth to Edward's son in prison-"

"Enough!" One of the guard's hissed, knocking his sword loudly against the bars of her cell, prompting a loud wail from Liam.

"I'll do what I can, my dear," Gavin promised with a kind smile.

Christine watched him go with a familiar sad ache in her chest. She was going to miss her friend. However, she thought that the rats would miss him more. Perhaps she was imagining it, but she could swear that Martha had a sad droop to her whiskers.

"I guess it's just you and me now, love," she whispered to Liam, soothing him to the best of her ability. "You don't count," she added, giving Martha a dirty look.

The rat squeaked indignantly.

"Fine. I guess it's you, me, and however many rats," she groaned in exasperation.

* * *

><p>A week passed.<p>

Then a month.

Then another month.

Christine's songs became sadder and sadder, in spite of Sari's visits. Gavin's replacement wasn't nearly as amiable as he had been, and every day that he was gone caused her to lose more and more of her little remaining hope.

Then, one day, Sari appeared in a frenzy.

"Christine! My God, you'll never believe it," she whispered feverishly. "I received a letter today from Gavin. It seems that he's spoken to Lord Alasdair's wife. She's agreed to help you get out... Gavin told her about me, and she said that if I drug my husband's ale with this-" she waved around a small vial excitedly "-she'll meet us outside the prison tomorrow at midnight and give us as much assistance as she can. Do you know what this means?!"

"We're getting out of here," she breathed, eyes filling with tears as she hugged Liam. "And the guards?"

Sari's eyes glittered mischievously. "I know just the thing."

The next night, Christine stepped outside for the first time in almost a year while the guards were busy vomiting up their dinners.

"They always dine with us on Tuesdays," Sari explained, stifling a giggle.

Christine didn't ask for more details.

As she stepped beyond the prison doors, Christine decided that there was nothing more beautiful than the sight of millions of stars glittering in the sky. They somehow seemed brighter since she'd last seen them. The sight almost made her laugh. Perhaps the prison had driven her mad after all.

Waiting at the end of the road, illuminated by the stars, were three horses and a petite woman in a deep red cloak. Her hair was the same dull brown as Jayne's, her nose small and turned up, and her lips thin and slightly down-turned. Her eyes, however, were a striking kaleidoscope of greens and blues. They darted around nervously even as Christine approached. She looked younger than Christine had anticipated, but she was unmistakeable nonetheless.

"You must be Edward's mother," she greeted softly.

"And you're the woman who led my son to ruin," she replied coolly, eyeing her up and down. "The singer," she added with a sniff.

"Christine," she replied with a small wince. She was aware that she couldn't be much to look at right now. Her dress had long ago faded to grey, and dirt clung to almost every inch of her. Any pregnancy weight she'd managed to gain on a prison diet had been lost long ago, leaving her even thinner than usual. Straw was in her unwashed hair, she was fairly certain that she had lice, and Martha - who had hitched a ride in her pocket - suddenly seemed very visible. Christine cleared her throat, eager to distract Edward's mother from her intense scrutiny. "And your name is...?"

"Evelyn," Edward's mother answered, although the look she gave her implied that being on first name terms was not something she would enjoy. "And my grandson?"

"Liam," Christine told her with a soft smile.

Evelyn approached her with a slight look of disgust, wrinkling her nose, but she reached for Liam nonetheless. Christine resisted for a moment, but reminded herself that just because Liam had barely left his arms since her birth didn't mean that any harm would come to him.

"Aren't you a handsome boy," Evelyn murmured, seemingly able to overlook the dirty cloth around Liam if not the dirt on his mother. "He looks like Edward when he was a babe."

That comment brought a smile to Christine's face, although Sari looked skeptical.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Aunt Sari said that she thought my grandmother was just trying to piss off my mother," Killian chuckled slightly at whatever memory he was recalling.<p>

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"Now, allow me to make something quite clear." Evelyn's voice returned to its earlier haughty tone as she handed Liam back to his mother. "I despise you. I think you're a selfish temptress who is almost certainly doomed to suffer and die, thank God. However, you and I unfortunately find ourselves on the same side in this. I want my son and grandson to not die in a prison cell, and I'm hoping that your objective is similar. That is why I did the job my son failed to do and got you this."<p>

She pulled a letter out from her sleeve and held it out to Christine. "Release orders with the king's seal for my son. I sent that foolish court astronomer off with similar ones for your brother, since he seemed to think it necessary. Yes, Gavin knew who you were."

"Thank you," Christine whispered, blinking back tears. "Even if you do despise me as much as you say. Perhaps you wouldn't if we got to know each other better-"

"Even if this doesn't get me executed for treason, I sincerely hope never to see your filthy face again," Evelyn snapped, before moving closer to hiss words that Christine could just barely hear. "Alasdair would have put him on the throne eventually, but then _you_ came along."

Hearing that Lord Alasdair had aspirations towards the throne didn't surprise Christine in the slightest. Instead, she just hardened her gaze.

"Then, I sincerely appreciate your help. And I pity you, because I imagine you are perhaps the only person in the world who misses Edward as much as I do."

A sneer twisted itself onto Evelyn's face, but her eyes filled with tears. "Much more, I assure you. And yet you somehow get him."

"I love him very much," Christine assured the woman, reaching out a comforting hand.

Evelyn moved out of reach, scowl deepening. "That's not enough. You are a foolish girl who doesn't understand a thing about love. If you had truly cared for him, you would have let him be."

A twinge of guilt coursed through Christine as Sari shot the woman a venomous look.

"Come on, Christine, we have a ship to catch," she prodded, brushing past Evelyn towards the horses.

Christine clenched her jaw and moved past her as well, forcing herself to keep her head held high. Once she reached the horses, she paused to look back at Evelyn, who was still frozen in place.

"You claim that you understand love, yet I'd wager that your marriage was arranged. A betrayal like this would surely not occur in a compatible marriage; you're working directly against your husband by helping me. That means that the love you know is a mother's love, which is something I have become well acquainted with recently. In that case, our knowledge of love is the same, and I know that I would only want Liam to be happy, regardless of who he chose to love. If you don't want that for Edward, then who is it who truly doesn't understand love?"

Christine stared the woman in the eye as she spoke, and, for a moment, she thought she saw a small shift. Sadness? Understanding? Respect? She couldn't quite put a finger on what it was, but it was there for a fraction of a second before it gave way to the now familiar look of loathing on the woman's face.

"Send my son my love, since I'm never to see him again thanks to you," she said bitterly.

"I will," Christine promised, nodding at Evelyn as she clumsily mounted the horse one-handedly.

She nudged the horse into a walk, carefully cradling her son.

"Let's go get your father."

* * *

><p>*English Trad.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

The Past

* * *

><p>There was something about being on a ship again that made Christine's heart sing. Yes, it was a pathetic ship of supplies for the prisoners on the island, but that didn't change the fact that she was surrounded by nothing but open water, with salty air tossing her curls in every direction. Her mood was also helped by the fact that she was wearing a clean dress for the first time in a year, and she herself was clean again. She was never taking bathing for granted again.<p>

She liked to imagine that Liam loved the ship too, but maybe it was just the fresh air and the constant gentle rocking that made him cry less. Martha also seemed happy, although Christine still held hope that she was not yet an expert on rat emotions. In contrast, Sari had been almost constantly sick since setting foot on the ship. Even though she'd tried to tell her sister that she'd get used to the waves eventually, Sari had vowed repeatedly between bouts of vomiting that she was never stepping foot on a ship again once she got off this one.

Lady Evelyn had bribed the crew well enough to get the rescue party decent quarters, but the very fact that the crew had been bribed made Christine nervous; to accept bribery was a form of deception. Could she trust men who were fundamentally dishonest not to betray her?

Ultimately, she didn't have a choice, but that didn't mean that she had to be happy about it.

When the island prison - a fortress of water-licked stone towering out of the ocean - finally appeared on the horizon, Christine's heart started pounding. What if Edward was dead? Or worse, what if he had lost his mind like the man in the cell next to hers, or now had a chronic illness that would slowly but surely leech away at his life? What if her letter of release didn't work?

"Thank God," Sari moaned beside her, looking pale and slightly green. "At least now the journey is half-over."

Christine glanced at her sister in some amusement. "One can hope, anyway," she murmured. Half-over implied that things would go smoothly, and she had stopped being that optimistic somewhere between her father dying and being thrown in prison.

As the ship docked some hours later, Christine gently handed Liam over to her sister.

"You know what to do if something goes wrong," she told her firmly.

Sari looked uncomfortable but nodded.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"What was the back-up plan?" Emma cut in curiously.<p>

"Bloody hell, Swan, you do enjoy interrupting," Killian protested with a glint of humour in his eye.

Emma shot him a dirty look.

He sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Well, the first back-up plan was to escape with Liam and raise him. The second plan was to drown him and herself."

At Emma's startled look, Hook added, "Only if my parents were dead and there was no way to escape capture, of course. Try to remember that capture would have meant death in the best case scenario, and torture or life imprisonment in the worst."

"Okay," Emma replied skeptically.

Killian's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What is it, love?"

"It's just I would have expected relatives of yours to have... I don't know, a more elaborate plan?" She commented with a smirk.

"There's only so much one can do when backed into a corner," Killian replied seriously.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"From the king himself?"<p>

Christine nodded with a polite smile, trying her best to look convincing.

The man in charge of the prison shrugged. "You heard the girl. Bring the prisoner." He turned to Christine. "Have a seat, my dear."

She eyed the faded armchair behind her dubiously, but sat. The man remained standing, eyeing her with interest.

"Men are rarely freed from this prison. Treason is not a crime the king is likely to forgive, for obvious reasons," he commented.

Christine swallowed hard, hand subconsciously tightening around the knife she had hidden beneath her cloak.

"That makes me think that this must be a special case. He wanted your husband out of the way so he could have his way with you?" The man guessed.

Relief flowed through Christine. "Yes, that was exactly it."

She tried to arrange her face into a look of shame. "Then I got ill, and he hasn't looked at me since." She mentally congratulated herself on her clever excuse for looking so sickly after her own bout in prison.

The man grunted. "Pity. The man should get his eyes checked."

Christine pretended to be embarrassed, but alarm bells were beginning to chime in her head. The man was eyeing her up and down like a piece of meat at a market.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "If it pleases you, Captain, might I get some time alone with my husband once he's brought here?"

The man lifted his eyebrows in amusement. "Of course, my dear. Are you sure you wouldn't like some alone time with me first?"

Christine blurted the first thought that came into her mind. "I'm afraid the illness I had was a venereal disease*, Captain. I'm likely still contagious."

The man recoiled. "Oh, of course."

That was the end of all exchanges between Christine and the Captain of the guard.

Christine was beginning to panic (how long had it been since the guard left to get Edward?) when the door to the office swung open.

For a moment, all Christine could do was stare.

The Captain cleared his throat and left with the guard who had brought Edward, and finally Christine had what she'd been dreaming about for a year.

"Oh, Edward," she choked, tears spilling over.

He was barely recognizable. He had always been a well-built man, quite well muscled in comparison to Christine's tiny physique. Now he looked as if he hadn't eaten in months. His eyes were sunken, his hair, usually kept short, was now at his shoulders, and a beard obscured much of his face. His clothes were grey and ripped, and the skin underneath was bruised and bloodied. He had to lean against the wall for support even to stand. However, his eyes still made him indistinguishably Edward. While teary, they were fixed on Christine in an intense stare, like a starving man suddenly offered bread.

Slowly, she walked towards him and warily reached out a hand to touch his cheek. It was wet with tears.

"I told you I would be the one saving you," she said weakly, attempting a smile.

Edward let out a quiet sob and pulled Christine into his arms.

"We're going to be fine now," she murmured tearfully into his shaking shoulders.

Edward didn't reply, just buried his face into her hair and continued to cry. Christine didn't mind; she needed it just as much as he did. She needed comfort from the past year, but, beyond that, she just needed Edward. More specifically, she needed the comfort of his touch to tell her that he was there, he was alive, and anything that had been broken during their separation could be fixed.

"I love you," he told her, his voice hoarse from misuse.

"I know," she replied, gently pressing her lips to his. "Oh God, I've missed you."

"Christine, they..." his voice dissolved into silent sobs that shook his body.

"They hurt you?" Finished Christine softly.

"They hurt _you_," he replied, holding her more tightly. Edward was a gentleman, but Christine guessed that what he was really trying to say was that she looked as though she'd been to hell and back too.

"Not really. I even made a friend. She's back on the ship. She's a rat-"

A laugh strangled its way out of Edward's throat.

"Oh, and, God, Edward, I have something amazing to show you back on the ship-"

He almost smiled at that. "The rat?"

"No, I almost forgot to say because I saw you and... oh, but, Edward, we have a baby," Christine said, smiling a huge wet smile.

Edward pulled away from her in confusion. "A baby?"

"Yes! I had him three or four months ago in prison and he's ours!" She couldn't have said whether the sound that came out of her throat was a sob or a laugh. "His name is Liam."

"Christine," Edward murmured, and, oddly, her name said everything. It said 'I love you', "I missed you", "you idiot, of course it's 'ours'", "I am in awe of you", "I appreciate what you went through", and a million other things that he needed to say but couldn't find the words for.

And when Edward held Liam for the first time, Liam graced him with one of his newly discovered smiles. Sari cried, Christine cried, Edward cried, Liam did not cry, and Martha... well, Martha didn't cry, but Christine imagined that she was moved all the same because she stayed perfectly perched on the table of their cabin, watching the scene unfold.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma snorted.<p>

"Hmm?" Killian inquired

"Your mom really had a thing with rats," she said, mouth twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

"To be fair, Uncle Gavin was the one who began that one," Killian replied with a shrug. "My mother just had a healthy respect for rodents after a year living with one, and was understandably more attuned to their expressive devices. She would probably get on well with Mr. Smee," he added as an afterthought, looking mildly disturbed by the thought.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>That night, as Christine lay in bed with Edward and Liam in between them, she couldn't help but let some reality back into her temporary cloud of euphoria. Once Sari's gentle breathing had evened out into the slow pace of sleep, Christine dared to ask Edward the questions plaguing her mind. He, of course, was not asleep; she felt the tension of pain and fear through the body that she had yet to get used to again now that it had changed so much.<p>

"What now?" She asked Edward softly, staring into his eyes in the dim light that came from the stars shining through the porthole.

"Are you still eager to go to the Southern Isles?" He questioned in his rumbling voice that Christine had missed so much.

"Well, I would love that more than anything, but I imagine that would be the first place they would look for us once they realize we're gone. They probably already have," she added with a shudder. Edward squeezed her hand comfortingly.

"You have an idea," Edward prompted, reading her too well as always.

"The last place they would look would be where they would never expect us to go: back to the capital. And we'd have had to go back anyway because of Connor and my father's things; Sari has those hidden with a friend."

Edward sighed. "You're right, of course. Going back there will be painful, though."

"Getting back into life again was always going to be painful," his fiancée pointed out gently.

"We'll have to change our names," Edward added.

"Maybe not our first ones since they're common enough, but the last, yes. I would've changed my last name anyway, so I can hardly complain," she grinned.

"I never much liked the name Larkin, anyway," Edward commented.

"It seems far too pretty for your father," Christine agreed with a snigger.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from Edward. "Your father's name was Jonathan, correct?"

"Mmm," Christine agreed.

"What about 'Johnson'?"

"Too obvious," Christine muttered.

"Jones?"

Christine paused.

"It still means something to us, but it's a bit less obvious," Edward explained.

Christine couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. The thought of making her father part of her identity in such a meaningful way was the greatest gift anyone could give her.

"It's perfect. Thank you," she whispered. Edward kissed her palm in response.

* * *

><p>The ship docked during the day, but Christine and her family waited until it was dark to leave. To her relief, Gavin was there to meet her. He was barely recognizable with his brown beard actually trimmed to an appropriate length, but his bright smile was the same.<p>

She ran to give him a hug. "Thank you," she whispered.

"My pleasure," he said with a smile.

His face lit up even brighter when a squeak sounded from Christine's pocket.

"Martha!"

Sari shuddered as the fat rat squeaked in excitement at her reunion with her old cellmate.

"Connor?" Christine asked, her chest tight with worry.

Gavin's expression fell slightly. "He's somewhere safe, not to worry. The Lady Evelyn gave me some money to give to you to do what you please with, and I took the liberty of renting a room. Your brother is there right now. Of course, my assistance comes with a price..."

Edward limped over, holding Liam carefully. "What do you want?"

"No need to be so concerned. Just to remain in whatever home you buy until I can get my own. Clearly, going back to court is not an option," he added with a smirk.

"Of course. It's the least we can do," Christine agreed with a smile. Edward nodded solemnly with his fiancée's response.

The journey to the room Gavin had rented was as painful as waiting for Edward had been. Connor had been in prison for years now and was far younger than Edward, which meant that the experience likely had a more severe effect on him. A sense of foreboding filled Christine as she ran up the stairs to see him.

"Christine, wait!" Gavin called, dashing up behind her.

"What?" Christine demanded, practically vibrating from nerves.

"I got a doctor to see to the worst of his injuries, but-"

"Oh God," Christine moaned, running the final steps to the door and yanking it open.

She wouldn't have recognized Connor if she hadn't known he would be there. Being as foolish as she had been, she had assumed that Edward had looked terrible, and surely Connor couldn't look much worse. He was a child for God's sake. However, he was pale and skeletally thin, his blonde hair sparse and unhealthy-looking. He lay in bed, so blankets covered the worst of his injuries, but worst of all were his eyes. They were blank, just as the madman next to Christine's had been.

"Connor!" Christine cried, running to his side.

To her relief, his eyes focused on her, but they looked startled and frightened. Before she could say anything else, he had opened his mouth to scream.

"It's me, sweetheart, it's Christine," she murmured, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

After what felt like an eternity, his screaming subsided into sobs and shaking. Christine felt herself start to cry as well, but couldn't even care enough to summon up any embarrassment. This was all her fault. Her brother had been tortured because of her, and now he was barely even _there_ anymore.

"Don't give up on him just yet," Gavin said quietly from the door.

Christine shot him a glare. "Why would you say that? Of course I won't give up on him. He's my brother. He's going to come back."

Gavin nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"So, what, he had PTSD?" Emma asked.<p>

Killian frowned in confusion. "PTSD?"

It took a moment for Emma to realize that he had no idea what she was talking about.

"You know, post-traumatic stress disorder? That thing soldiers get after going to war?" Emma tried to clarify.

"That's a real condition?" Killian sounded surprised.

"Yeah... I guess it's when your brain has been under too much stress and so it sort of cops out," she added.

"Well, that sounds plausible, then," Killian said with a shrug. "Or at least one of the many things wrong with him from that point forward. I assure you, they only multiplied." His tone held a note of bitterness that Emma had barely heard, but she didn't question him about it. She was certain that she would discover the reasons soon enough.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>The Jones house was tiny, in one of the poorer sections of the city, but Christine loved it anyway. It had a living room that doubled as a kitchen at the front of the house, and two bedrooms at the back. It looked almost like a little cottage in the city, and somehow, in spite of everything, it felt safe.<p>

For the moment, Christine, Edward, and Liam shared one bedroom while Sari, Gavin, and Martha shared the other. Connor slept in the living room in a bed Christine specially made up for him, so that he could feel like a part of the family without having to leave his bed.

Learning to cook was perhaps the most challenging part of her first year owning a home. Christine had never had the chance to learn before, but fortunately Sari was there to help her.

Edward began to look more like himself now that he was clean, shaven, and beginning to heal. He was even starting to look for work along with Gavin, and they often found the odd job, particularly down at the docks where people often needed a hand.

Christine began to work again as well. She found a small pub a few streets down from her where she could sing about once a week and earn a decent wage. The rest of her time was spent with Connor and Liam, when she wasn't ill; her time in prison had left her with a feeling of weakness and a chronic cough that wouldn't go away.

Connor recovered enough to recognize her and respond, but often seemed to disappear into his head for flashbacks. Every night, Christine was woken up at least once by his screaming. Christine's presence was the only thing that would calm him down enough to sleep.

"I want papa," he would cry sometimes, and Christine's heart broke a little bit each time.

Sometimes, when he was lost in the middle of a flashback, he even became violent. The first time he had punched Christine in the face had been a nasty surprise, but now she was becoming used to his flailing limbs and frequent angry outbursts.

"Do you feel like getting up?" She asked one day, watching Connor eyeing Edward playing with Liam longingly.

His eyes flashed. "No, I don't bloody feel like getting up. If I wanted to, I'd get up! Damn you, Christine. You think you know everything, don't you? You think you can just read my bloody mind! Well, you can't! You don't know anything! Nothing at all!"

"Alright," Christine sighed, brushing a curl from her forehead. Edward frowned at Connor, looking as though he wanted to say something, but Christine shook her head. The look didn't pass by Connor, though.

He let out a laugh of disgust. "You think you're the man of the house? Well, if you're such a man, why don't you tell me off? You coward! What, afraid of offending me? Afraid I'll hate you just like your whole bloody family?"

"Connor!" Christine reprimanded.

Edward stood up angrily, eyes flashing.

"Edward, don't!" Christine begged, grasping his arm gently. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

His jaw jumped, but he nodded tightly.

"Thank you." She gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"Christine!" Sari called, entering the house breathlessly.

With a sigh, Christine moved to her sister. "Yes?"

"Can I talk to you outside for a moment?"

Christine nodded, wiping dirty hands on her apron with a last glance at her glaring brother and fiancée.

"What is it?" Christine asked.

Sari stalled, scuffing her feet against the dirty road.

"Well, I'm sure you've noticed, but, well, um, Gavin... he, and me, of course-"

"You're engaged," Christine guessed without hesitation.

Sari's dark eyes almost popped out of her head. "Yes! How did you know?"

Christine chuckled. "You make eyes at each other all the time. You flirt constantly. You kiss whenever you think I'm not looking. It was obvious. I think you'll make a lovely couple."

In fact, the idea was quite thrilling to her. She loved Gavin and Sari both so much that the thought of them getting married almost made her want to jump up and down in excitement. She could just picture them in a few years, with children of their own and Martha's. They would be a beautiful family.

"Anyway, I know that you and Edward wanted to wait until you were both feeling well again before marrying, but now that a year has passed, perhaps we could get married together?" Sari blushed at her hopeful words.

"I'd love that very much," Christine agreed.

Edward was also in agreement, and the four were married on Christmas day in 1794. Jayne snuck out to attend the wedding, and shyly paid for a wedding portrait as their wedding gift.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"You saw that, I presume?" Killian interrupted his story.<p>

"Yes," Emma confirmed, picturing the cheerful woman and the serious man she had seen and trying to reconcile them with the tale Killian was weaving.

"It's the only picture I had of my parents," he said somewhat wistfully.

"Have," Emma corrected with a smile.

Killian smiled back, but it didn't quite meet his eyes. "Yes, of course."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>March of 1795 rolled around, and Christine found herself waiting with baited breath. It seemed that major things always happened at this time of year: falling in love, being arrested, escaping prison, that sort of thing. That was why, when a tearful Jayne rolled into their now much emptier home since Gavin and Sari had moved down the street, Christine was not in the least surprised.<p>

"Good lord, what is it, darling?" Christine asked, worriedly.

Jayne threw herself into Christine's arms, sobbing too hard for Christine to make out the words. Connor rolled his eyes and turned over to face the wall.

"What's going on?" Edward asked, hurrying out of what had become Liam's room.

"Father found out about mother helping you and now she's going to die!" Jayne wailed.

Edward's face drained of all colour.

And, just like that, a world that had just began to right itself turned upside down once again.

* * *

><p>*An STI<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

The Past

* * *

><p>Lady Evelyn Larkin was executed on May 1, 1795.<p>

It was a public affair that many attended in the square outside of the palace. Those who attended reported that Lady Evelyn died well, without any weeping or begging. In truth, she was lucky that she was beheaded rather than boiled alive, burned, or hung, drawn, and quartered. Other traitors may not have received the same mercy, but Lady Evelyn was a frequent enough face at court that the king decided to spare her a more painful death.

Everyone agreed that the best part of the execution, though, was her last speech:

"I am proud to die a lady and to die a mother, but I admit that I have one regret: dying a wife. Yes, I die as the wife of the king's advisor, but I should rather die a whore if it meant being unsaddled by vows to a craven bastard."

Then, with only a glare towards Lord Alasdair, she promptly placed her head on the block and lost it.

Of course, Christine and Edward weren't there. At the time Lady Evelyn lost her head, Christine was lying in bed next to her silently crying husband, attempting to provide comfort without really knowing how.

He had wanted to try to rescue her of course. Gavin had pointed out that it could be a trap to lure him and Christine back into captivity, but that didn't stop him from wanting to go.

"If I have to die, then so be it. I would rather die than live with the cowardice of abandoning her," he had said shakily, looking to Christine for support. Sari gave her husband an exasperated look as everyone waited for Christine's response.

For the first time, Christine let him down.

"Edward, I know that you don't want to hear this, but I have to say it. I will, of course, support you in whatever decision you make and help however I can. But, consider a few things first. If you die, which you likely will if you go through with this, your mother will still die. The only difference will be that she'll perish for nothing; she knew she was taking a risk when she helped us, but she did it to save _you_. I'm not sure that she would appreciate you throwing your life away for a sacrifice she felt compelled to make. Beyond that, you would leave Liam an orphan," she reasoned quietly, eyes downcast.

"He'd have his mother," Edward argued, sounding uncertain.

Christine just gave him a look that clearly said that he was an idiot if he assumed he'd be making any suicidal rescue attempt without her.

"And you'd also leave Jayne without a decent living family member," she added, staring at him intently. "Even if you do succeed, you will inevitably be seen, and once they know where we are, we'll not survive longer than a few days at most. Just know that this is a suicide mission if you go through with it, and it's not just you who will bear the consequences."

"So you want me to let her die?" Edward snapped, jaw clenching.

"I want you to think this through," Christine replied, squeezing his hand gently.

Despite a debate that lasted long into the night, Edward eventually had to accept Christine's logic.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"He just let his mother die?" Emma asked, horrified.<p>

Killian frowned. "Weren't you listening, Swan? The options were limited. I know that your parents assume that they can fix any problem and win any fight because they are 'good', but it's not always possible. People run out of options, and sometimes people die. Sometimes there's no 'right' choice, only a choice that is least harmful."

"Well, when you put it that way," Emma muttered. Maybe her parents knew that after all, in spite of their incessant rants about hope. Wasn't the 'least harmful' choice the one they'd made when they sent her away as a baby?

When she thought about it that way, she had to admit that Killian's parents sounded less monstrous.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Understandings his wife's logic didn't mean that Edward had to like it. However, perhaps the only person who felt nearly as bad about it was Christine herself. She knew that she was right in her reasoning, but she also knew that letting his mother die would destroy Edward. She added that knowledge to the increasing pile of guilt that she hid in the back of her mind where she wouldn't have to look at it.<p>

Life went on, but now there was one notable difference. Instead of taking care of a young child and a mentally unstable brother with the help of her husband, she was now taking care of a her son, her brother, _and_ her husband, who mostly just lay in bed with sad, vacant eyes. He ate when Christine brought him food, but rarely moved or spoke. She imagined that this must be what it was like living with a ghost; he was there, but he wasn't at the same time. He had lost a mother, and Christine had lost a husband.

Connor seemed to enjoy the whole thing very much.

"And you act as if _I'm _the mental one," he sneered from his cot.

"I've never said anything of the kind," Christine sighed, soothing her currently screaming son.

"You don't have to. I can see the way you look at me. You feel sorry for me," he said disdainfully, glaring at her from across the room.

"Mama," Liam sobbed, burying his curly head into his mother's shoulder while she bounced him lightly in her arms.

"Can't you get him to shut the bloody hell up?" Complained Connor, putting his pillow over his head.

When Christine didn't respond, Connor's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do believe I'm one of the saner ones here. At least I don't scream or sit like a bloody vegetable all day."

"You of all people should know how difficult it is to lose a parent," Christine admonished, deciding that pointing out that her brother stayed in bed all day just the same as Edward did may not be the wisest course of action.

"When father died, I had to go to prison. I had far more difficult things to worry about," Connor snapped. "But you wouldn't know. You were off parading yourself around in fancy dresses and sleeping with anyone who stood still long enough, even if that person was a Larkin and turned out to be bloody useless and incapable of coping with the smallest things-"

"Stop it" Christine shouted, finally losing her temper.

Connor raised his eyebrows, looking smug. "You just know I'm right."

Without another word, Christine took Liam to his room and shut the door. As soon as it was shut, she slid down the wall and buried her face in Liam's hair, finally allowing herself to cry frantic, silent sobs. Liam's wet eyes turned to her, perplexed.

"Mama," he babbled.

Christine just hugged him more tightly, until he began to squirm uncomfortably.

"Your father is going to be fine soon," she whispered, shaking slightly.

Unfortunately, Christine was incorrect. By the time a month past, she was sure that she could expect Edward to come back soon. But then another passed.

It took five months for Christine to finally break.

It had been a particularly bad week. Money was a bit low, because it was hard for Christine to work and balance looking after her three boys. Connor had been in a particularly ill temper because of the heat. While he now got out of bed, it was mostly to sit around in chairs and antagonize his sister. On top of everything, Liam had gotten the flu, and Christine had barely slept. That had only made her own still-lingering illness from prison worse, and she was feeling more drained than she ever had before from the constant coughing.

"Edward?" She said hesitantly, approaching their bed. As usual, his eyes stayed fixed on the wall. With a sigh, Christine climbed into bed next to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Will you please say something?" She tried again, a little more angrily this time.

He twitched, but, otherwise, there was no response.

"Edward!" Christine snapped, her voice breaking. She rolled over and pulled her knees to her chest, as if by making herself smaller she could hold herself together.

"I know that you're hurting, love, but..." Christine faltered, voice small and shaking, "But I've been hurt too. I know these past years haven't been easy for us, but I can't do this on my own. It's just too much, and I'm so tired."

Christine sobbed into her knees, trying to calm herself down but failing. For the first time in a while, she realized how much she missed her father. He had been a single parent and yet he'd never complained or broken down from what she could tell. She had no idea how he'd done it. Perhaps it had been easier for him; at least his spouse had been gone permanently, instead of being in some sort of half-existing state.

For a few minutes, there was no sound but the quiet crying of Christine. Then, slowly, Edward rolled himself over and wrapped himself protectively around his wife. It was the most contact she had received from him in a long time, and it almost shocked her into silence. Instead, she allowed herself to cry more, leaning into her husband in a gesture bred from former familiarity.

The next morning, Edward got out of bed before her and made breakfast. He looked exhausted and still emotionally blank, but he was out of bed. The next day, he said more than a handful of words. By the next week, he was almost himself again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly to her a few nights later in bed.

She gave him a loving kiss in response that promised forgiveness.

The following few years were comparatively smooth. Liam grew into an energetic little boy with a particular fascination with ships, which his father took him to see every Sunday at the docks. His mother began to teach him to read and write. She also tried to teach him about music, but found him to be as hopeless at it as his father. He was incapable of singing on key, and found his grandfather's violin boring and tedious. With some regret, Christine gave up and put her father's violin back into a corner of her closet. Sari and Gavin were frequent and welcome visitors. Their visits often brought a good amount of cheer, although Sari sometimes took Christine aside to cry and express her concern over the fact that she couldn't seem to get pregnant. Sometimes, when she thought Christine wasn't looking, her sister caught her staring at Liam with something very much like longing.

While Christine didn't tell Edward nor Sari, she herself had concerns related to pregnancy. Over the past few years, she had suspected herself to be with child multiple times, but each pregnancy had resulted in miscarriages. By the time Liam was five, Christine had already lost three children. She never told Edward because she didn't want to worry him, but she suspected it was because she was simply too sick to carry a child. Her illness from prison still hadn't gone away, and she often felt too exhausted to get through the day without frequent periods of rest. She knew that Connor noticed, but he didn't say anything.

However, even taking Christine's illness into account, Connor remained the perpetual problem in the Jones household.

While other things functioned smoothly, Connor stayed his usual self. The only times Christine saw fragments of the brother she used to know was during his nightmares. He would wake up, covered in sweat and frantic, to bury his head in his sister's shoulder.

"Don't leave me again," he would sob, staring at her. "You have to promise."

"I won't make a promise that I cannot guarantee I'll be able to keep, darling. But I'll do my best. I love you very much," she murmured, rocking him gently.

Then, during the day, he would revert to his usual angry self, sometimes even having fits that ended with Christine having a few bruises. At his worst, he even cracked one of her ribs.

Christine did see some improvement, though, in the fact that he actually seemed to regret his actions.

"I'm so sorry," he moaned after the rib incident, blinking rapidly. "I just get so angry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I just think that everyone is going to hurt me, but you're the only person who never does."

Then, in spite of everything he'd just done to her, Christine had to wrap him in a hug.

It wasn't until 1799 that he finally went too far.

"Mama, mama!" Liam cried, running in with a broad grin, his father following more slowly behind him. "Guess what?"

"What?" Christine asked absently, stirring a pot over the fireplace.

"Martha had babies! Aunt Sari said the she was just getting extra fat, but Uncle Gavin said she was going to have babies and she was right!"

Christine looked taken aback. "Well... that's nice, I suppose." Edward hid a laugh behind his hands.

"Bloody hell," Connor grumbled from his usual chair next to the fireplace, where Christine had been telling him a story. She'd discovered that stories helped to calm him down, so long as they contained nothing that reminded Connor of anything traumatic.

"There are eleven of them and they're tiny! Do you think I can have one?"

Fortunately, Christine was saved from having to respond by a small woman in a cloak entering, almost tripping over the door in her haste to get in.

"Jayne, what brings you here?" Christine asked with a smile. Connor glowered at her from his chair.

Jayne ran to Edward and threw her arms around him, holding on for much needed comfort. Edward shot his wife a look of dread. Neither had seen Jayne in such a state since she'd come with the news of Evelyn's impending execution.

"Aunt Jayne! Martha had babies!" Liam crowed, jumping up and down.

"Liam, I think it may be time for you to do some reading. Why don't you read that book about sailing that your father got you?" Christine said with a meaningful look. Liam nodded briskly and scampered off.

"What's wrong?" She asked the second her son was out of the room.

"Oh God, Christine," Jayne moaned. Her hair, although tucked in a bun, was in massive disarray around her face. She was now a young woman of eighteen, with a pleasant, if still plain, face. At the moment, her usual cheerful features were morphed into a position of shock.

"What?" Edward prompted again, more urgently.

"I have such terrible news," she said, tears filling her eyes.

"Let me guess, your bastard father is planning to off us all," Connor drawled, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes. "What a surprise."

"Connor," Christine said sharply.

"I'm to marry the prince," Jayne blurted. "Father arranged everything. I don't want to for he seems as horrible as his father and he already had his last lover murdered, I know it, and he shan't be a good man to marry. I hear he's developed a terrible temper and he hates me ever since you ran off, Edward, and I can't marry him!"

Connor laughed humourlessly. "Well, it looks like the Larkins are getting on the throne after all. Congratulations, you two."

Both Edward and Jayne stiffened.

"It's not their decision, Connor," Christine replied, correcting his aggressive comments automatically.

"No, of course not. But what is it they say? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree? We'll be extremely lucky if Julian decides to kill her. I can just picture it now; Lord Alasdair hissing in her ear, Jayne betraying us and having us all killed, Jayne leading marches against our family in the North, the whole kingdom falling to chaos... dear, sweet, innocent Jayne will become a murderer, mark my words, just like her father and just like her brother, I'm sure. It's what all of the Larkins do. Even Liam will become a murderer and a cad, I'm certain. There's only so much your blood can do, Christine, and perhaps even your blood is tarnished. Perhaps mother had an affair, and that's why you insist on whoring yourself out to Larkins and befriending criminals and servants and _rats_-"

"Not another word, Connor," Christine interrupted as Edward stiffened beside her in barely contained anger. He had gotten much better at ignoring Connor's off-putting remarks, but even he had his limits.

"You do not know me," Jayne insisted, blushing slightly. "I'm not a killer, I swear."

"Who is Jayne going to kill, Mama?" Liam's voice came tentatively from his room.

Christine sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. Like all children, Liam was developing an insatiable curiosity, which often included eavesdropping.

"No one. Aunt Jayne is a good woman," Christine confirmed, even as Liam ran to her and buried his face in her apron.

"She hides it well, but even something that seems pure and innocent can be a rotting, festering mess underneath. That's what all of the Larkins are like," Connor sneered, pointing accusingly at Jayne.

"No, Aunt Jayne is _good_. Mama said so," Liam insisted, his lip trembling.

"She's wrong," Connor said flatly, eyes flashing as he stood. His face was beginning to turn dangerously red.

"Mama's never wrong," his nephew replied stubbornly.

"Your mother is a foolish woman who lacks all foresight," Connor snapped in reply, advancing angrily.

"Connor, calm down," Christine intervened, stepping forward and putting her hands on his chest placatingly, stopping his advance.

"How dare you say that to me! You have no idea what I went through because of _you_. You should be waiting on me hand and foot, not forcing me to endure the presence of murderers and lowlifes!" He was shouting now.

"Connor, we've been through this before-"

"I've endured enough pain for _all of you_, and it's all your fault." At the last word, Connor swung his fist into Christine's face.

"Mama!" Liam gasped, running towards the pair angrily. "Stop!"

Connor backhanded his nephew without a second thought.

"Out." Edward said, his voice low and dangerous.

Connor sneered. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, out!" He shouted, moving to Christine and helping her up. Her nose was steadily dripping blood onto the floor, and she avoided her brother's eyes.

For a moment, the room sat in a heavy silence. Liam was starting to cry, and Jayne was pale in horror and fear.

"Connor, I love you, but I can't do this anymore," Christine finally sobbed, nearly hysterical. "You hurt _Liam_. All I've tried to do is help you, but I can't have you under this roof if I know you can't control yourself around my son. Edward is right. I'll pay for you to rent a room until you find yourself a job, but, Connor, I just can't."

With a final disgusted glance, Connor spat at his sister.

"Out!" Edward snarled.

Connor left without a backwards glance, only grabbing some money on his way out.

As soon as he was gone, Liam ran to his parents and they folded him into a gentle hug.

"Good lord, I am so sorry," Jayne whispered. "I shouldn't have come-"

"Yes, you should have. We're your family," Christine said with a gentle smile, inviting her into the hug. Jayne sunk into the small family in relief. Everyone felt the absence of Connor, but Christine was ashamed that it brought at least equal relief to grief and regret.

"Everything is such a mess," Jayne whimpered.

No one disagreed.

"Julian may not be so bad, Jayne. Just remember that you can always come to us if you have any problems, alright?" Christine said.

Jayne nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "I just wish you could come to the wedding!" She cried.

Some of the tension dissipated as her brother and his wife began to giggle.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Edward said that night, watching his wife's tears silently fall again now that she was in the privacy of her own room.

"It needed to happen. He hurt Liam," Christine replied tonelessly. "I just wish-"

"I know," Edward interrupted gently, pulling her closer.

That night was not one of the happier nights of Christine's life. However, one positive thing did happen that night.

That night, although turbulent, was the night that Killian Jones was conceived.


	11. Chapter 11

The Past

* * *

><p>"She looks just like me."<p>

Sari elbowed her husband out of habit as Christine bit back a laugh, holding their now several-month-old baby securely over her significantly enlarged stomach.

"Particularly her complexion," Christine added with a smirk.

"Don't encourage him, for the love of God," her sister rebuked, shooting her husband a fondly annoyed look.

It seemed that Sari's baby prayers had finally been answered. In April of the year 1800, the couple had become happy parents with the birth of Ciarra. Their daughter was a beautiful baby girl with wise dark eyes and velvety dark skin like her mother, although perhaps several shades lighter. Beyond her slightly lighter skin, there seemed to be very little of Gavin visible in the infant, although Christine sometimes thought she saw a twinkle of humour in the child's eyes similar to her father's. She also knew that it was impossible for a four and a half month old child to truly have a sense of humour, but she imagined it was there all the same.

"How soon are you due, Chris?" Gavin inquired cheerfully, taking his daughter back.

"A couple of weeks, I'd wager," Christine groaned, leaning back further into her chair. "Hopefully earlier. Liam was never this restless, unless I was just too busy avoiding Martha's relatives to notice."

Gavin smiled affectionately at the mention of his pet while Sari buried her face in her hands.

"Twelve rats in my house. _Twelve,"_ she shook her head.

"Ciarra loves them, don't you, darling? You're going to agree with papa once you learn to speak, aren't you?" Her husband said in the higher pitched voice he reserved for rats and his daughter.

"He named them all! For the life of me, I still can't tell them apart, but he's always saying things like 'oh, Bria wants to play with Ciarra', or 'stop annoying your mum, Iain, or you'll make her crotchety'-"

"Do you still drop anything you're holding whenever they squeak at you?" Christine inquired.

Sari glowered, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

"Truth be told, I'm sure she'll bash Ciarra's head in by next week," Gavin chuckled. "You can't hit me while I've got our daughter," he added to his wife, who quickly dropped her hand with a huff of irritation.

Ciarra babbled and he quickly turned his attention back to the infant, babbling right back at her. Sari's mouth softened into a smile at the sight, and Christine felt her heart swell at the picture of her sister's happy family. Perhaps it was simply her pregnancy playing with her mind, but she was feeling ridiculously blessed at the moment; her sister and her friend were in love with a beautiful child, her brother had recently gotten a job and might possibly be starting to turn his life around, and she was pregnant with her second child. It was a nice change to be pregnant and surrounded by the thoughtfulness of her husband and son rather than in a jail cell. Edward hadn't been around for her last pregnancy, which meant that he was now a bit of a nervous, overly-thoughtful wreck. He hid it well, but Christine could see it in little things like his anxious questioning of Gavin about Sari's labour, or the way he had taken over most of the chores in the house. Liam was equally excited about the prospect of a sibling.

"Will I get to play with him?" He'd asked one night after he'd forced his mother to sit down. His seriousness and their position at the kitchen table made the a situation feel suspiciously like an interrogation.

"Or her. And yes, as long as you're gentle," Christine promised.

Liam nodded thoughtfully. "Will it be loud?"

"Yes, for a while," his mother confirmed. "But he or she will sleep in our room until he can sleep through the night."

"Then it will sleep with me?" Liam inquired, his eyes lighting up.

Christine laughed at her son's excitement. "Yes. It will be like having a friend over every night."

"What if he doesn't like _interesting_ things? Or what if he always does his chores and you love him better?" Lines creased his forehead as he obviously got to the crux of the matter.

_Clever boy started with the easy questions_, Christine thought fondly. "Your brother or sister may not like the things you like at first, but I imagine he or she will admire you very much simply for being older. You'll find at least something you agree on, at the very least. And even if he does all of his chores without your father or me asking him, we'll still love you both."

Liam tilted his head, clearly not convinced.

"I admit he'll require more of our attention at first because you're old enough to take care of many things yourself-" Liam sat up straighter with pride "-but we'll still love you equally."

"I guess that's okay, then," Liam said with an authoritative nod, standing up to get his wooden toy boat. Christine laughed silently as he started sailing it around the room.

On August 18, 1800, she gave birth to her second son late in the evening. Liam spent the night with Sari, Gavin, and his cousins while a panicking Edward stayed with his wife.

"I don't need a doctor," she insisted irritably once labour started. "I didn't have one last time, and I certainly don't need one this time."

Edward turned pale enough in response to cause Christine to suspect an imminent fainting episode, but she remained stubbornly set against a doctor.

"I don't want anyone else poking around down there," she snapped, and that was the end of that.

"Is it supposed to be so painful?" Edward exclaimed worriedly a few hours later.

"Bloody hell, of _course_ it is. What on earth gave you the ridiculous idea that pushing a person out of you was supposed to be easy?" Christine panted, sweat dripping down her forehead.

"Can't I do anything else to assist you?" He demanded, wiping away the sweat with a cool cloth and biting his lip worriedly.

"Stop panicking! You're making me anxious," his wife replied, gripping his hand and continuing to push.

She was extremely grateful that labour was much shorter the second time, partially for herself but mostly for Edward's sake. When their son was finally born, he breathed a larger sigh of relief than she did.

"There. Not so bad," Christine chuckled weakly.

Edward was holding his newly-cleaned crying son with a look of amazement on his face. With his degree of engrossment in his child, Christine wasn't even sure that he'd heard her.

"You were amazing," he told her at last, although his eyes were still fixed on his son's.

"One of my many talents," she quipped. "May I hold him?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Edward stumbled over his words as he gingerly placed the infant into his wife's waiting arms.

It had been so long since Liam had been small enough to cradle in her arms that Christine felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to do it again with another child. It was a strange thing to realize that this infant had been inside of her less than an hour ago, but now he was staring at her from her arms.

"So you're the cause of all of this trouble," she murmured softly, feeling every ache in her body from its recent ordeal.

Edward leaned down and pressed a kiss to his wife's cheek before continuing to stare at his son.

"I wish that I'd been there last time," he whispered.

"Me too," Christine agreed. "But you were there not too long after. And now we get to do it all again." The thought thrilled her.

Edward nodded. It made Christine smile to see how dazed Edward was from watching his son be born. The miracle of birth, indeed.

"You survived your first pregnancy and your first delivery. I think you should be quite proud of yourself," Christine added with a laugh.

Edward smiled, before placing a gentle kiss to the head of his new son.

"I love you, Killian," he murmured.

"Killian?" Christine inquired with a knowing smile.

"Yes. It's only fair that I get to name this one."

"Not Alasdair?"

Edward looked at Christine and there was a beat of silence before they both broke into quiet giggles.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"They didn't talk about names before you were born?" Emma said in disbelief.<p>

Killian chuckled. "Oh, they certainly did. They just didn't come to any acquiescence. My mother actual suggested Killian; it was the name her father used when they went to the Southern Isles and he was trying to keep their identity somewhat secret-"

"Crewe wasn't your mom's real last name either?"

"No, of course not." Killian looked at Emma as if the fact that the thought had even occurred to her was a shock. "Well, her real last name is debatable. My grandfather was adopted, if you recall, and most likely his adopted father's bastard. If that was the case, he could have technically taken his father's name, although others would have frowned down upon him for it. He could have taken his mother's, but her identity was never disclosed to him... probably a prostitute. His original last name was just one he chose for himself. If you consider it that way, my mother never really had a 'real' last name to change. She was just so used to 'Crewe' from her years in hiding that she kept it until she married."

Collapsing further against the tree trunk as names and family members swam through her mind, Emma let out a small groan. "That is confusing."

Killian raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Anyway, my father argued that naming me Killian Jones would be like naming me Jonathan Jonathan. I guess the name grew on him, though, or else he was just attempting to please my mother."

He said the last part so derisively that Emma had to work to hide her surprise. He pointedly ignored her reaction as he dove back into his anecdotes, clearly not wanting to discuss the topic further.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Liam was delighted to have a little brother. He was certain that his future was now securely filled with toys and games and fun-filled evenings of chatter.<p>

That changed about a week after Killian was born.

"Doesn't he _do_ anything?" Liam demanded as Christine gently placed her son in his cradle to sleep.

"Shh," Christine hushed, ushering her son from the room.

"Mama," Liam complained. "Does he only sleep?"

"He'll do more when he's older, love," she promised with a grin. "First he has to grow up a bit."

"But he's so dull and loud now," Liam groaned. "How long do I have to wait?"

"Just a few years," Christine promised.

"'Just'?! I shall be _old_ by then!" He declared in the perfect picture of six-year-old despair.

Liam eventually got somewhat used to the idea of having a little brother, and, as promised, he did eventually grow old enough to play even if his games weren't what his brother enjoyed due to the age difference. However, it wasn't until just before Killian's fourth birthday that Liam's dislike for his brother peaked.

Christine was making dinner and singing. Hearing her sing at all hours of the day was not unusual; she sang so often that both Killian and Liam assumed that 'home' was a place where _everyone_ just sang for several hours a day.

Today, she was practicing for the newest opera taking place in a quiet, unpopular theatre close to home. As a result, she was using her prized, if battered, tuning fork to make sure that she was actually singing in the right key.

"Mama, can I go see the ships?"

Christine paused and frowned slightly. "By yourself?"

Liam paused looking guilty. "Yes?"

"No, I don't want you going there without Gavin or your father. There are always criminals and pirates, no matter how many guards there are... no, not until you're older, sweetheart," his mother told him apologetically.

"It was worth a try," Liam muttered, flopping down at the kitchen table.

Christine reached for her tuning fork to find her note again. She was just about to strike it when she heard a quiet hum. She turned to see Killian watching the tuning fork with his strikingly blue eyes.

Furrowing her eyebrows, Christine hit the tuning fork against her knee and held it to her ear. He was humming the exact note. After a moment of hesitation, Christine purposely started her aria on a different note and watched Killian's young face flood with confusion.

"What is it, love?" Christine asked, although she was fairly certain she already knew.

"That's wrong," he said without hesitation, and then started humming the start of her aria on the correct note.

"Edward!" Christine called, eyes wide as a pregnant Martha.

Edward, who had been changing after a day of work at the docks, came running to the living room.

"What is it?" He demanded urgently.

"Killian!"

His eyes flew to their son in alarm. "What about him?"

"He has perfect pitch!" Christine shrieked in excitement. "Killian, show papa. What is the note mama's tuning fork makes?"

Killian hummed it, looking a little nervous. Christine's face lit up in response.

"Oh," Edward said, looking not nearly as excited as his wife but still slightly proud.

Liam glowered from the corner.

On Killian's fourth birthday, Christine gave him a life-changing birthday present: her father's violin.

"I thought that I could teach you!" Christine said with a bright smile. "I can't say I know too much about it, but my father taught me the basics. Then, once we move past that, perhaps I can ask one of the violinists in the theatre orchestra to take over."

With a delighted smile, Killian picked up the violin, all other presents forgotten. Christine quickly showed him how to tune it, and then he put it up on his right shoulder.

"No, sweetheart, other shoulder," Christine tried to say.

She was cut off by Killian dragging the bow lightly across one of the strings. A huge, toothy grin filled his face as a sweet, resonant sound filled the room. Hesitantly, he put his finger on one of the strings and drew his bow across it while pulling his finger up and down the string slowly. Liam winced as the slow glissando filled the room. Killian did it on every string while Liam and Edward exchanged doubtful, slightly pained looks.

Then, Killian began to play the most recent aria Christine had been singing around the house. He finished with a delighted laugh to absolutely stunned looks from his parents and a venomous look from his brother. Seeing Liam's face, Killian's smile slid off of his face.

"Do you want to try, Liam?" He offered.

Liam scowled. "No, I don't."

Christine watched her older son thoughtfully.

Later that night, once Killian went to bed, Christine drew him aside.

"I have a secret to tell you," she told him with a fond smile.

"That you like Killian better because he's a musical prodigy?" Liam said sulkily.

"No," Christine said slowly, beckoning her son over to sit with her. "I just wanted to tell you something that my father told me when my brother was born."

Liam scowled. "What?"

"Well," she replied carefully, "I didn't like him so much at first-"

"Because he's scary?" Liam guessed. Connor hadn't been over since the now infamous fight that had ended in him striking Liam and being kicked out of the house.

"He wasn't scary then," Christine replied softly.

Liam snuggled into his mother's shoulder. "Then why didn't you-"

"Because everyone seemed to think he was so adorable and they said it all the time when I was around. Everyone seemed to love him and ignore me just because he was younger. It seemed horribly unfair.

"Then my father told me something that changed everything. He reminded me that Connor was _my_ brother."

"Isn't that the problem?" Liam sulked.

"Well, what he was saying was that whenever anyone complimented my brother, they were complimenting me because he was _mine_."

"Oh," Liam said, sounding slightly baffled. "I didn't think of that."

"Nor did I," Christine whispered conspiratorially. "But it certainly helped. Whatever accomplishments Connor did made me proud, because it reflected well on me. After all, he belonged to me. He was _my_ brother."

Liam stared at his mother and she could practically see his brain working as he processed her words. Internally, she congratulated herself on fabricating such a useful story.

The next day, Christine had a few of her musician colleagues over and Killian played the violin for them. Her friends were baffled and amazed at first, but that soon melted away to amusement as Liam walked up to them.

"That's _my_ brother," he told them proudly.

Christine winked at Edward as he turned to her in shock.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"So, you <em>were<em> a violin prodigy," Emma groaned accusingly.

"A little bit," Killian admitted, looking slightly embarrassed.

"And you seriously just picked it up and played? Just like that?" She demanded. "How?"

"Well, once I heard where on the string each note sounded, it was easy," Killian explained, sounding slightly baffled by her question.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Killian loved his violin.<p>

He couldn't understand why everyone was so impressed by his playing. To him it was as natural to play it as it was to walk, and the realization that other people didn't feel that way was shocking to him.

The first time he played a note on the beautiful instrument, he could swear that he felt the earth shift. He loved the way it felt to drag the bow along the string and feel it vibrate in response to his touch, letting out sweet sounds in a large variety of voices. He could make the smallest adjustment, and the sound would completely change. He went to play the instrument and it felt like the entire world disappeared, just leaving him and whatever melody decided to come from his fingers.

His mother had tried to get him to change the hand he played with so that he played correctly, but he inevitably returned to playing it left-handed. He was right-handed, but it felt so much more natural to him to make each note with his right hand and to have his left hand do the bowing. The other way just felt backward.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma cut in. "That was fortunate."<p>

"Very. One of the few ways lady luck has been kind to me," Killian acknowledged with a wry smile.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Killian also liked the time he spent with Christine when she taught him about music. She'd discovered quickly that she couldn't teach him much about actually playing the violin, but she taught him music theory and, perhaps more importantly, ways to express the music. In fact, he fully believed that almost everything he learned about musicianship came from simply listening to his mother.<p>

Of course, a big part of Liam and Killian's childhood had been sitting backstage while Christine performed. If Edward ever had to work later in the evening, their sons would go with their mother to the opera. Sometimes they would play together with toys they brought, sometimes they would read, but, most of the time, they listened as their mother's voice filled the small theatre.

Sometimes, Aunt Sari and Uncle Gavin, or even Edward and Aunt Jayne (if she could sneak away), would take them to sit in the audience. That was what Killian enjoyed the most, because he loved to see his mother get lost in different worlds so completely. She was his mother, yes, but for several hours, he got to see her become someone else. He always hugged her extra tightly when she came back to being her.

It was during one of those performances that something groundbreaking occurred.

Christine was partway through the aria when guards stormed in. Killian watched as his mother's face turned as pale as snow, but the guards weren't there for her.

"Attention! We are here to confirm what you may have already heard. After a long and difficult illness, King Clayton, the first of his name, has passed on from this life."

Christine tuned out the rest of the speech as she felt her heart sink. She locked eyes with Edward, who was in the audience, knowing exactly what this meant.

First of all, Julian, a man who now hated Edward more than anyone, including Alasdair, was now king.

That meant that Jayne was now queen, and they would inevitably see less of her.

Most of all, it meant that life was about to change dramatically for the Jones family.


	12. Chapter 12

This is a bit of a darker chapter, and I decided to change the story rating as a result because of the more mature themes. Again, there are no explicit descriptions, but the subject matter is far better suited to a mature audience.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Seeing Aunt Jayne was always a treat when Killian was young.<p>

A few days after the king died, he was playing with Ciarra at her house when Liam came running in through the door. As Killian was accustomed to, this resulted in a surprised Sari, which meant that she dropped whatever she was holding. In this case, it was the pot of stew she was about to put over the fire.

"Liam!" She admonished, looking at the mess of potatoes, lentils, vegetables, and broth in dismay.

"Sorry, Aunt Sari. Killian, Aunt Jayne is here!" He panted, his eyes alight.

Killian jumped up immediately and sprinted after his brother. Ciarra scowled at the interruption, but she knew from experience that Aunt Jayne arriving at Killian's house meant that playtime was over. Killian ran through his front door and immediately threw his arms around his aunt, who was talking seriously with his mother. When she came, his mother usually became quite serious, but sometimes whatever Aunt Jayne had to say made lines of worry fade from Christine's face. Usually, that sort of conversation involved words like "still secret" or "Southern Isles" or "not looking for you".

It took Killian only five seconds to realize that today was not one of those days.

"Hello, little one," Jayne smiled down at him, lifting him into her arms. Being up closer to her face confirmed his suspicions; those were definitely tears on her cheeks.

"You're upset," Killian stated as if waiting for someone to contradict him. In his experience so far, adults didn't really cry, so this was rather strange.

"A little," she laughed through her tears, hugging him tightly enough for the strong scent of vanilla to pervade his nostrils.

He found out the reason as soon as his father came home.

"Jayne," he said in something almost like relief as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. She held on and didn't let go for some time.

"I feared you would be unable to come," his father commented in his deep voice.

"As did I," Jayne admitted.

Edward led her over to one of their chairs. She always looked a bit out of place in their home, even in her less fine clothes. She tried hard to disguise herself to a degree, but even the most ragged of her clothes were still made of fine materials and stood out among the less lavish decorations of the Jones home.

"I really just came to say goodbye," she sniffed, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm to be crowned queen on Friday, and I doubt that I shall be able to sneak out again once that happens. It was hard enough today."

"We appreciate it very much," Christine told her, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly.

Killian stared at his mother in amazement. Why wasn't she telling her that she had to come back and visit? Jayne's visits were rare, yes, but he loved his aunt. She was quiet but she smiled when Killian played violin for her, and she was always happy to join in the children's games (she could be an excellent pirate when they played 'pirates versus navy'; only Christine was better).

"But you'll come see us eventually, right?" Liam cut in. Killian could always trust him to ask the important questions.

Jayne started to cry in earnest and Killian looked to Liam in alarm.

"It's uncertain, darling, but perhaps not," Christine explained quietly.

Jayne left soon after that, and everyone cried, even Killian's father.

"I'll miss you all very much. You're more my family than anyone," Jayne sobbed into Edward's chest. "I love you all more than you know."

"Be careful," Christine murmured pulling Jayne into a hug.

Then, with a few last hugs and goodbyes, Jayne was gone.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Did you ever see her again?" Emma asked softly.<p>

"You're ruining the story, Swan," Killian said petulantly. "I can't tell you things out of order."

"But she's dead?"

Killian rolled his eyes. "Of course she's dead, Swan. Everyone in these stories is dead."

He said it so matter-of-factly that Emma felt strangely sad. Then again, perhaps so many years had passed that he'd learned to divorce the words from emotion.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>It was a very sombre night in the Jones household after that. They sat down to dinner in silence except for a few sniffs.<p>

"I thought that it was good that the king died," Killian finally said in confusion.

His parents looked at him in surprise.

"Well, you didn't seem to be very fond of him," he muttered rebelliously into his mashed potatoes.

There was a long pause. "It's complicated, love," Christine told him gently.

Killian still didn't understand, but he went back to his dinner anyway.

That night, Edward came to tuck his boys in. Liam insisted that he was far too old at eleven to need to be tucked in, but he agreed that it was acceptable for a four-year-old. He never seemed to really mind his father's presence, though, which led Killian to believe that he just wanted to appear mature when he really enjoyed the excuse to talk to whatever parent was doing the tucking in.

Liam's secret was safe with him.

"Father, will Aunt Jayne be alright?" Liam asked worriedly as Edward secured the covers around his younger son.

Edward looked unhappy, but said, "It's likely she will be, yes."

"Promise?" Killian asked with a pout.

His father smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "I promise that your Aunt is an intelligent woman, which can get one through most things in life. That's why it's important for you both to study hard."

Both boys had received the education lecture many times before, so both of them nodded automatically without really registering his words.

"Are you terribly sad, Papa?" Killian inquired, feeling very concerned about the tears he had seen earlier. Yes, his father cried very stoically, but up until today he'd believed that adults _never_ cried.

"Well, yes, Killian. I'm going to miss my sister, but you don't need to worry about me."

He blew out the candle and left with the usual "good night"s and "I love you"s.

"He's lying," Liam stated authoritatively the second the door closed. "We do need to worry about him. He and Mama are terrified about something."

"Evil grandfather?" Killian asked, just to confirm.

"Of course," Liam said derisively. Killian fully accepted that Liam was far more wise than he was, but he still disliked Liam's know-it-all tone.

"What do you think he looks like?" Killian wondered aloud. "Do you think that he has fangs and red eyes and-"

"He has a beard," Liam interrupted authoritatively. "All bad men have beards. And he's probably fat from the children he eats."

"Oh," Killian said, trying to picture his grandfather. He hoped he didn't like eating small boys. Surely he'd prefer bigger ones like Liam. The thought was comforting, because Liam was better at pretend sword-fighting and he thought he might stand a chance.

"Well, good night," Liam said cheerfully, turning his back to his brother and closing his eyes.

The next morning, Killian woke up before Liam. He walked into the living room to see his mother writing in her journal, still dressed in her nightdress and robe.

"Mama?"

Christine looked up with a smile. "Yes, love?"

Killian looked around to make sure the coast was clear before creeping forward into his mother's lap.

"Does evil grandfather really eat children?"

It wasn't that he didn't trust Liam, because he did, but he knew that sometimes Liam tried to scare him. If he wasn't ever totally sure about the validity of Liam's claims, he always went to his mother because he was fairly certain that she was the smartest person he knew.

Swallowing a small giggle, Christine shook her head. "No, darling, he doesn't eat children. He eats happiness. That's why we don't like to have him around."

Killian nodded seriously. Her theory made more sense than Liam's. He'd bitten Liam once when Liam was being too bossy, and even though Liam yelled very loudly, he hadn't bitten a piece out of him. He'd only left teeth marks. That meant that unless his grandfather had fangs, eating children would be very difficult.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"You bit your brother?"<p>

Emma began to laugh helplessly at the thought.

Killian was unbothered. "It is infinitely clear that you are an only child, Swan."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"Today we're going to see the ships," Christine told them brightly over breakfast. Too brightly.<p>

Her younger son paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Why?"

Liam looked at his mother equally suspiciously. "Are we leaving?"

She sighed, but Killian thought he detected a glimmer of pride in her eyes. "No, loves, but we need to be out of the house today. Your father is building us a hiding place, just like hide and go seek, and we can't be in the way."

"Couldn't I help?" Asked Liam, insulted.

"Not today, darling. I know you're growing up, but we'd still rather you didn't get hurt accidentally."

"I wouldn't," Liam argued.

"Why do we need a hiding place? If we all know where it is, it won't be any good for hide and seek," Killian interrupted, feeling thoroughly confused.

"We won't be playing hide and seek with each other, Killian," his brother retorted scornfully.

Christine and Edward exchanged a look. Killian hated the look, and he was fairly certain Liam did too. He could sometimes understand what they were saying, but his parents insisted on doing it anyway. He wished they would just tell him exactly what they were saying to each other. It wasn't like he would tell everyone, and he was more than old enough to understand whatever his parents were trying to hide from him.

"It's just a precaution," Edward said in his posh accent (Killian much preferred his mother's). "But, no, it will be for if we need to hide from-"

"Evil Grandfather?" Killian interrupted.

Liam rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Or the king, right Mama?"

Edward and Christine exchanged the look again, only this time it seemed to be a proud look mingled with exasperation.

"We should know better than to attempt to keep anything secret from these two," Christine grinned.

Smugly, Liam nodded. He'd been trying to tell his parents that for a long time, but Killian doubted that this one conversation would yield the results his brother wanted.

"Apparently," Edward said with a sigh, looking slightly concerned. Killian knew that his father had a fairly sheltered childhood, at least if Mama's teasing was anything to go by. That was probably why he thought that they couldn't handle the truth.

Edward gave them each a kiss as they went out (or tried to; Liam insisted on a handshake, so his father settled on ruffling his hair).

Now that Killian knew they weren't running away on a ship, he was happy to go down to the docks. He liked it there. Everything was always busy, and there was always a market set up there where merchants arriving from far-off places would sell their wares. It smelled like spices, and sometimes there would be musicians playing along the docks. They were never as good as Christine or Killian, but he liked their playing anyway.

He also liked looking at all of the ships docked in the harbour. There were huge, graceful ships and smaller, more efficient looking ships. He couldn't decide which he liked better. Fortunately, he had Liam to tell him all about them, because Liam was a veritable expert on ships. Killian didn't know as much since he was younger, but he hoped to be as clever as Liam one day.

Killian was gaping at one huge ship that was just sailing off when he walked straight into a well-dressed older man with greying hair and sharp grey eyes.

"Pardon me," he murmured, backing up.

The man glared at him in disgust, wiping off his pants with a handkerchief that smelled strongly of lavender.

Christine had noticed what had happened and was now rushing back.

"Killian, come along," she told him gently, grabbing his hand.

"You need to keep better track of your children," the man was saying coldly. Killian bristled at his tone. No one talked to his mother like that.

"Apologies, sir," she said politely, but she trailed off as their eyes met.

Killian looked between the man and his mother as silence fell between them. The blood had drained from his mother's face, and she was currently looking as though she wanted to sprint away. Her hand tightened around Killian's, and he could swear he felt her trembling. The man looked just as shocked but oddly triumphant. He reminded Killian of a mad, stray dog that had once prowled down his street. He'd watched through the shuttered windows as the dog had tracked one of Martha's offspring and snapped him up in his jaws (Gavin had looked close to tears). The dog's eyes had looked empty, but his lip had curled in a very menacing way that sent shivers down Killian's spine. This man looked just like that dog, if that dog had been rich and not foaming at the mouth.

"I told him you weren't on the Southern Isles," the man commented.

"I don't believe we've met before, Sir," Christine said with the curtsy and accent she used when she played paupers in the opera.

The man raised his eyebrows skeptically with a knowing smirk. "As I told you before, my dear, for someone who acts for a living, you really do a terrible job at lying when it truly matters."

Killian glared at him and debated kicking him in the shin. Unfortunately, Christine knew him too well and gripped his hand harder, shooting him a warning look.

The dog-man followed her look and seemed to look at Killian for the first time.

"And this is your son? Handsome boy. He looks just like you."

Killian's scowl deepened.

"Especially with that face," the man added with a humourless chuckle.

Killian stuck his tongue out at him.

"Killian, go find Liam, sweetheart. Mama needs to talk to this man," she ordered, leaving no room for argument. He rarely heard that voice, but, when he did, he didn't dare disobey. With a final dirty look at the fancy man, Killian scampered away.

He didn't find Liam, though. Instead, he watched his mother and the man from a distance. His mother looked angry and frightened, and the man looked as if he'd just won something. Killian hoped that he _had_ won something, like a ship. If he had, he hoped that someone burned that ship into a pile of ash. Or maybe he'd won a horse. If he'd won a horse, he hoped the horse kicked the man in his smug, stupid face.

Liam found him eventually, and stared at the man with Killian.

"Who is he?" Killian asked worriedly.

Frowning, Liam looked him up and down. "I have no idea."

As they watched, the man walked closer and closer to their mother, who stood her ground and kept her face neutral. Finally, he leaned forward and appeared to be whispering in his mother's ear. As he stepped back, his mother nodded tersely. The man smirked and walked away, leaving Christine standing there looking miserable. She closed her eyes, before returning her face to a neutral position and looking around for her boys.

Killian ran to her and wrapped his arms around her legs.

"Change of plans, my loves. I'm afraid I have to run an errand this afternoon. I'll have to drop you off at Aunt Sari's, alright?"

"Why?" Killian asked suspiciously as Liam asked, "Is the errand related to that man you were speaking with?"

Christine clenched her jaw. "I'm afraid I can't discuss it anymore, but you have nothing to fear, understand? However, I do need the two of you to keep a secret. You can't let anyone know that I ran into that man. Can you do that for me?"

Her sons nodded solemnly and she smiled, pulling them both into a tight hug.

She dropped them off with Aunt Sari, saying something about buying Edward a birthday present. Then she kissed them goodbye and ran off. Aunt Sari was frowning as she watched her leave.

"She'll figure out something's wrong. Aunt Sari is smart," Liam muttered to his brother.

"What's wrong?" Asked Ciarra, popping up beside them.

"Nothing," Liam replied in irritation.

Killian hoped that it really _was_ nothing.

* * *

><p>Christine opened the door with trembling hands.<p>

It was surreal to be back inside the palace. The rooms and halls were all achingly familiar, but it had been so long since she was there that it felt as though she was dreaming. Very little had changed within the palace over the years, but everything still felt ridiculously strange. It was after a moment of reflection that she realized that perhaps the most important part of this equation had changed since she'd been here: herself. She'd been seventeen when she was last here. She had been infatuated with Edward, frightened for the fate of her brother, and thoroughly helpless and trapped. Now she was twenty-nine. She was a mother. She was someone who had grown accustomed to independence, love, and control. But one thing had not changed.

She was terrified.

She had so much more to lose now, and so many more people would be affected if she played the wrong cards. Losing wasn't an option, not if it meant that her loved ones would suffer. She had to win, and to win, she had to play.

The door swung open with a creak, and the repulsive scent of lavender wafted towards her. She wrinkled her nose and walked into the office she remembered well from many terrifying hours of "political" discussion.

Lord Alasdair sat just where she remembered, with his back towards her. Cold grey eyes watched her reflection in the window as he fiddled with an almost empty wine glass.

"No mask tonight?" Christine inquired, proud that her voice was steady.

The man at the desk smiled. "You knew it was me."

"Of course, I knew. You really ought to try out different scents," she suggested tightly.

"And you didn't tell Edward."

Christine scoffed. "How could I? You're his father. How on earth would I explain to the man I loved that his father had some sort of perverted obsession with me?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been far wittier than my sorry excuse of a son," Lord Alasdair said with something almost like grudging respect.

"Then perhaps you ought to have gotten to know your son better. Heaven knows that I could never marry a dimwitted man," Christine retorted.

"Come in, my dear," Lord Alasdair invited smoothly. "I can barely see you."

Christine sighed. That had been the point, of course. She walked to her customary seat across from him at the desk and sat down hesitantly.

"Wine?" Offered Lord Alasdair.

Christine raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose there's a reason that you've survived this long," Lord Alasdair chuckled, taking a dainty sip from the proffered glass.

"You could have built up an immunity to certain poisons. In any case, I'd rather be fully sober for this conversation," Christine said.

"Very well," Lord Alasdair said with a shrug, taking a long drink from his own wine glass.

The wine was very red, and it had stained his teeth and lips. It looked as though he was drinking blood. Christine shuddered.

"I wasn't certain that you would come," the man continued, ignoring her reaction. "Age has done nothing to destroy your looks, my dear."

"I wish that I could say the same, but, as you've said, lies do not flow from my tongue very well," she replied sarcastically.

"I've always enjoyed your sharp tongue. Life can be quite dull here now," he chortled.

Christine decided that it was time to get to the point. "Why am I here?"

Lord Alasdair raised his eyes from her chest to stare at her face for a few seconds. "Well, I'm sure that you can guess. You have children, a husband, a brother, a life, lord knows what else... and you want to keep them safe. I have the power to destroy them bit by bit. I could have your loved ones torn apart piece by piece until they begged for death, all before your very eyes. In fact, if I let the king in on your existence, I'm sure he would happily do even worse.

"But I haven't. Why, you ask? Because you have something that I want."

"And what is that?"

"Can't you guess?" He asked intently, eyes boring through hers once again.

Christine shivered and locked her hands together in her lap, praying that he couldn't see her shaking.

"Of course, I've been going mad ever since I saw you. You're a beautiful woman, as I'm sure you're aware. Most beautiful women are, bless them, and they love to use it to their own advantage. You, for instance, used it to seduce my son, perhaps even to escape prison; I understand you had an accomplice within the jail-cell. Oh, and that foolish court astronomer, you clearly managed to seduce him as well. Then, I realized that you had a brain underneath all of that, and what is more attractive than that?"

"Perhaps the knowledge that your son was sleeping with me?" Christine quipped.

"Yes, rather irritating," Lord Alasdair admitted as he took another long drink of wine. "It was a relief to rid myself of him, of course. He failed to take after me, and I'm afraid I've never forgiven him for it."

"Thank God for that," Christine muttered. She couldn't stop shaking, and it was turning her red with shame.

"Anyway, I'm sure your position is quite clear to you. You are welcome to leave now, but I guarantee that I will track you and your loved ones down and destroy them. Then, once you're mad with grief and suffering, I may, if I'm in a good mood, end your suffering. Alternatively, you can give me what I want, and I'll forget that we met today."

Christine looked at him in revulsion. It was bad enough to threaten just her son if she didn't come to the palace tonight, but this was beyond the worst thing she could have imagined.

"Are you even human?" She hissed. "What about your son?"

"I thought I made it quite clear that I don't give a damn about him," Lord Alasdair drawled. "And I shall happily show you just how human I am through human desires, if you let me. Your answer?"

"I'll give you what you want," she spat between gritted teeth. "But only because I have no choice."

And she did. She gave him what he wanted multiple times, until she could barely walk. She bit back her tears and let him look at her and love her, even if she hated every second.

When he was finally finished, she started to shakily dress as he continued to watch her. He, of course, had only partially undressed, but insisted that she was entirely naked.

"You know, it's interesting," he commented.

Christine didn't respond. Her throat was too tight.

"You really weren't worth it. Very disappointing, in fact. Nothing more than a common whore."

Tears fell lightly from her nose onto the floor. She knew he was lying to add insult to injury, but somehow it didn't matter.

Lord Alasdair rang a bell and a servant promptly opened the door, blushing when he saw a still half-naked Christine.

"Please escort this whore outside the palace. I'm finished." He waved her away without another glance.

Christine gathered up her clothes and held them over herself as the servant walked her out, doing her best to ignore the whistles and jeers of anyone she came across. The servant gave her a final push out the castle gates, causing her to lose her footing and fall, scraping her hands and her knees on the way down. Instead of getting up, she sat and screamed until her throat was raw. Then she sobbed, no longer caring about who saw or heard her.

In truth, she didn't feel like getting up again. She half hoped that she would just be struck by lightning and die, but that didn't happen. Finally, once the moon was high in the sky, she shakily pulled on her remaining clothes and limped home.

The house was quiet when she came in, and she bolted the door behind her. Even after a day of work, the house was neat and in perfect order. Clearly, Edward and Gavin had worked very quickly; now there was just a new carpet covering the trapdoor they had built.

Quietly, Christine boiled some water and drew herself a bath. She scrubbed for an hour, intent on getting every last trace of lavender and Lord Alasdair off of her skin. Then, without a second thought, she threw the clothes she'd been wearing into the embers of the fire and watched them burn.

She pulled on her nightdress and checked on her children first. Killian and Liam were fast asleep and looked incredibly peaceful. Christine pushed away Killian's hair gently and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. Then she kissed Liam; his hair was shorter and curlier, so she didn't have to push his away.

"I love you so much," she whispered, wiping away her tears.

Then she went to Edward.

His face had been so careworn lately, but he always looked so relaxed and childlike as he slept. It reminded her more of the boy she had fallen in love with so many years ago.

Carefully, she crawled into bed beside him, reminding herself that this was what she lived for. She would go through any amount of suffering for her family.

"Christine?" Edward murmured sleepily.

"Shh, go back to sleep, my love," she murmured, gently placing a kiss on his heavy eyelids.

"Are you crying?" He asked softly, gently running a hand over her cheek.

She relaxed into his hand and sobbed. He held her as carefully as if she were something precious and breakable. He made her feel so loved, but now she felt as though she didn't deserve it.

"You know that I'd do anything for you," she cried.

"Of course I do," he said in confusion. "And I for you."

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed into his shoulder. "For everything I put you through."

Edward lifted her chin gently. "You don't put me through anything. I love you, and that means that I love everything that comes with you. Even the difficult parts."

"I love you too. More than anything," Christine sobbed.

"It's been a stressful few weeks. Everything will look better in the morning," Edward promised, giving her a kiss.

Christine nodded and curled into her husband. She held onto him all night.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Wait, so she never told him?" Emma asked, her own throat feeling tight from revulsion.<p>

Killian shook his head, clenching his jaw. "No, not to my knowledge. I think she was too ashamed to tell anyone."

"Except you?" The thought confused Emma.

"No, certainly not me. She passed long before I was old enough for her to tell me anything like that, never mind her darkest secret. I read it in her journal, actually, and only after I was told it by the other party in the tryst."

Emma looked at him incredulously. "What was that conversation like? 'Hey, Killian, just to let you know, I screwed your mom?'"

"Something like that," Killian said, clenching his hand angrily. "But I'll disclose those details at a later time."

Emma was beginning to feel like she didn't want to hear them, but, at the same time, she felt that she needed to.

"Alright. So what next?"


	13. Chapter 13

The Past

* * *

><p>In his almost five years, Killian had never thought of his mother as fragile. However, in the weeks following her encounter with the strange man at the docks, she seemed jumpier and sadder than he'd ever seen her.<p>

About a month after that incident, yet another stranger appeared.

Christine was outside, hanging laundry on their small clothesline, and Killian was struggling through a book nearby (being fairly new to this reading thing) to make sure that the wind didn't blow her away. He had his wooden toy sword nearby in case the dog-man showed up as well.

His mother seemed more nervous than ever today. She was almost at Aunt Sari levels of nervous, and she worried more than anyone Killian knew.

She was hanging up the last piece of laundry when a man suddenly appeared in their yard. He had blonde hair, a scruffy beard, and sunken blue eyes. He was not a hugely tall man and was lithely built, but he was still bigger than Christine. That meant that he was a threat, although Killian would bet that his mother could beat him any day.

"Mama," Killian called urgently.

Christine turned around in a blur of dark curls.

"Connor!" She cried in delight, throwing her arms around the man.

He stood quite stiffly as his sister hugged him, but he didn't pull away. Eventually, he even brought up a hand to pat her gingerly on the back. She pulled back with a smile and examined his face.

"My goodness, I can barely see you under all of that hair," she teased.

Although he wasn't totally sure, Killian thought that Connor may have tried to smile. The result was more of a grimace, though, and was frankly terrifying.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Killian asked suspiciously. Liam had told him all about their Uncle Connor, and Killian was certain that he didn't want him around.

"I invited him, darling," Christine explained. "Connor, this is Killian, my youngest son."

Connor eyed him up and down with little interest. "He looks much more like you than the other one."

"Come in! I'll make us some tea," his sister said, taking him by the arm.

Killian trailed behind with a suspicious frown. He certainly didn't trust the man with his mother after what Liam had said.

"So, any news?" Christine asked as she busied herself in the kitchen.

Connor threw himself down without ceremony into one of their chairs.

"Well, I've a new job. I'm now managing a theatre," he told her without enthusiasm.

"That's wonderful!" Christine gushed.

"You should perform in it. You'd make all of the other singers look like squawking chickens, of course, but one good singer is better than none."

"Of course," his sister promised, shoving a warm mug into his hand and pulling up a chair beside him. "We must see each other more often, Connor. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. You're still the only person who has ever treated me kindly," he replied, and Killian sensed the first flicker of sincerity from his uncle's mouth. "I do have a question for you, though. You're always happy to visit me regularly, but I confess that I was quite surprised to receive an invitation over here. Have you finally decided to stop begrudging me that ridiculous incident?" Sarcasm bled into the latter end of his sentence.

Christine hesitated. "I suppose that I just realized that life is so short, and I would hate for something to happen to one of us without being fully reconciled. We see each other, yes, but I miss how close we used to be. I was hoping... maybe we could try again?"

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Connor shook his head. "I don't think it's possible to go back to how we were. However, in saying that, you're still the person I trust most and the person I'm closest to, even after all this time. Pathetic, isn't it? And here, you're the one that made me this way."

His sister winced. "Yes, I know, and I shall never forgive myself for being unable to save you sooner."

"I know," Connor muttered moodily into his tea. "Doesn't change the fact that it happened."

Killian resisted the urge to mimic his uncle from where he was pretending to read behind him. Christine shot him a warning look.

"What else is new?" She asked, voice strained. Killian didn't blame her; his uncle seemed like a right git.

"I'm thinking of getting married," Killian's uncle sighed, leaning back further in his chair.

Christine's eyebrows shot up. She looked so shocked that Killian wouldn't have been surprised if he'd misheard everything and Connor had said that he had a pet dragon.

"To whom?"

"A woman," Connor smirked.

Rolling her eyes, she nudged him playfully with her foot. "I assumed as much. Who?"

"No one you would know. She's a pretty fifteen-year-old who sings in my theatre sometimes. Bloody awful compared to you, but she's pretty and she's an orphan."

Christine's lips twitched. "Clearly the selling point there."

"Clearly," Connor groaned. "I'd hate to have an in-law like Lord Stick-Up-His-Arse."

"Sh!" Christine shushed him, glancing at Killian, who quickly turned back to his book in the picture of innocence.

"What's her name?" She questioned, almost bouncing in her chair now.

"Helena," he said almost reverently.

"That's a lovely name. Connor and Helena Crewe," Christine mused, looking into the distance dreamily.

"She hasn't said yes yet. But she will. She's barely got a penny to her name." Connor was so matter-of-fact about it that Killian felt his dislike for the man grow even further.

Connor did marry Helena the following winter. It was a small ceremony with mostly just colleagues and family, and Aunt Sari cried of happiness. Christine didn't cry, but she did beam with pride.

"That's because it's _her_ brother getting married. It reflects well on her, you see," Liam explained in his usual know-it-all tone.

Killian had seen Connor only a handful of times-

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma groaned.<p>

"Seriously? More hand jokes?"

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>-but the wedding was the first time he'd seen Helena.<p>

She looked old to Killian, but a year is an eternity when you're five. She was barely sixteen when she married, and Killian couldn't help but notice that she didn't look too happy, even when she smiled. She was a short woman with white blonde hair, hazel eyes, and pouty lips that naturally fell into a frowning position. Where his mother was very thin, Helena was stocky with large breasts and hips.

Killian trailed behind his mother sulkily when she went to congratulate her new sister-in-law. As was typical of Christine, she enveloped a very surprised Helena into a warm hug. She looked frankly relieved when Christine released her.

"Welcome to the family," she told her cheerfully.

Helena grimaced. "Thank you, I suppose."

Christine continued to chat with her about what a beautiful bride she'd been, how lovely the ceremony was, and how excited she was to get to know her better. Helena nodded in feigned politeness throughout. However, as his mother turned around, Killian noticed Helena's face shift instantly into an expression of intense dislike.

"Come along, love," Christine told her still staring son.

That night, Sari, Gavin, and Ciarra came over for dinner. It was a celebration of Martha, who had recently passed away, in addition to a celebration for Connor. Still, despite the occasion, Christine refused to allow Gavin to bring any rats into her household.

"It was a miracle that she lived so long, really," Gavin sniffed, looking remarkably heartbroken.

"It's alright, Papa," Ciarra told him, climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms around him.

"It was because she was so loved. No rat could have asked for more," Edward told him solemnly.

"A toast!" Christine interjected, raising her glass of white wine; she'd recently decided that she couldn't stand red.

"To Martha!" Sari began, who was doing only a half-decent job at hiding her pleasure at having one less rat in the house. "And particularly to her inability to reproduce ever again."

"To family," added Edward with one of his rare smiles.

"To children," Gavin sobbed. Killian suspected that perhaps he'd had too much wine.

"And to peace and happiness for us all," Christine finished, downing half of her glass in a single gulp.

Looking back at that night years later, Killian would remember it with a sense of melancholy. It had been a wonderful evening, full of laughter and tears and happy banter. It had also been the last truly happy night for his family. Within the next two years, three out of four of the adults in that room would be dead.

* * *

><p>The guards first came in April of 1806. Christine would comment in her journal that she was surprised it hadn't happened in March. It was a shame, in fact. If it had, she might have expected it.<p>

Gavin came running into their house one evening with Sari and Ciarra in tow.

"Edward! I heard tell that the king somehow got news that you and your family were still in the city. He's sending guards to houses all through the city to arrest anyone who looks remotely like you and Christine. It might be time to use that hiding spot," he reported worriedly.

Killian's parents exchanged the look before leaping into action; Edward packed up food, Christine grabbed her journal and anything else that might reveal the identity of the occupants of the house, and Killian and Liam were instructed to grab books (in case they were down there for a while).

The cellar was dark and could be bolted shut from the inside. The carpet was nailed down over it so that the entrance was hidden from sight, unless someone attempted to move the rug. Edward had even glued a side table beside one of the armchairs onto the rug, so that there would be less reason to assume the rug was there simply to hide something.

The area was small, but Killian didn't mind being in close contact with his family; otherwise he'd feel absolutely alone in the dark. Christine lit one candle so that everyone could see each other at least faintly, but it was still very dim and gloomy. Christine had stored some food, candles, blankets, and pillows down there in preparation, which at least made things more comfortable.

It was lucky that they were so prepared, because it took eight days for the guards to reach their house. The eight days were agony. They had to stay fairly quiet, which was boring at first, but then Christine thought up a game. She passed around some paper and everyone had to add one word to make a story. That was fun for a while. She also hummed songs and got people to guess the title and what it was about. It was a fairly quiet game, although there were many suppressed giggles.

Killian wrote music and studied music theory with his mother's watchful eye over his shoulder. He read about ships with Liam and asked his father about any questions he had. He and Ciarra invented their own sign language, which the rest of the family enthusiastically tried to learn. Everyone got quite tired of eating canned and pickled things, but things could have been worse.

At nighttime, or what the inhabitants of the cellar guessed was nighttime, Killian slept nestled between his two parents with Liam. Christine sometimes voiced her worries about Connor when she thought her sons were asleep, but Edward soon managed to push away her fears.

"They weren't looking for him, Christine. Besides, they'll know that he had half lost his mind by the time he was rescued. I don't think he'll be considered a threat," Edward murmured.

Christine nodded tightly as Sari breathed a sigh of relief. Sari had never been as close to Connor, but she still considered him her brother.

On the eighth day, footsteps pounded over their heads. Christine put a finger to her lips and blew out the candle. Killian gripped his mother's hand and leaned into his father as loud voices echoed through the house and they heard the noise of furniture and belongings being thrown around.

When the noises faded without anyone finding them, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

"Can we go up now?" Liam demanded, already standing.

Edward grabbed his hand and pulled him back down gently. "We don't know if they will return or if they've even left. We should wait at least a few more days."

Liam groaned quietly, but sat back down without another word.

They came back, as Edward predicted, two days later. Once again, everything was thrown around. It sounded to Killian like the stampedes on the Southern Isles that Christine had told him about.

"Now do we have to wait some more?" Ciarra complained irritably.

Killian didn't blame her. The small area was becoming increasingly claustrophobic and was starting to smell of unwashed humans and accumulated waste in buckets stuck in a corner. He also decided that he never wanted to eat anything pickled or canned again.

"A little longer," agreed Gavin.

Finally, a day or so later, the seven of them emerged back into the living room.

"Oh, sun, how I've missed you," Sari moaned.

"Our house," Christine said sadly, glancing around at the damage.

"We'll get it back in order in no time," Edward promised, planting a kiss on his wife.

Ciarra made the 'gagging' sign in their new sign language. Killian nodded in agreement.

The guards didn't come back for several months. The next time they came, they had less than a minute to disappear beneath the trapdoor; Edward had spotted them moving towards their street on the way home from work and sprinted down an alleyway to get there first and warn his family. Anything that needed to be hidden was already down there, and fortunately they only had to hide for a week this time.

"Sooner or later they're going to notice a pattern," Christine murmured worriedly. "Perhaps they're only checking the uninhabited houses from last time to see if people were simply away from home when they came. If we're the only house that's ever habitually empty, they're going to see a pattern. Who knows what they'll do then? Perhaps we ought to look into moving."

Edward did so the second they dared venture out from their hiding spot again. However, he returned each night with the same news.

"No one is willing to sell anything right now if it means that they may be housing fleeing criminals. I think they've backed us into a corner, Chris," he told her grimly.

Christine grimaced. "We'll just have to hope for the best then."

Guards began to appear more and more frequently, and finally, in July 1807, the first crisis occurred.

"Over here. I've found something!" A gruff voice called from overhead.

Christine breathed in sharply, and Killian felt her rise to a crouch.

"I love you," she whispered quietly to her family. "Killian, Liam, Ciarra, and Sari, stay hidden."

"Why me?" Sari hissed.

"You don't know how to use a knife or a sword. There's no point in you going out there and getting yourself impaled," Christine snapped. Killian had never heard his mother speak so sharply to her sister before.

The door opened and painfully bright light filtered down on the seven people below ground. Killian shrunk against Liam as Christine climbed out first, slashing at the man who had opened the trapdoor. Edward and Gavin quickly followed.

Sari reached for the remaining knife in their hiding place and stood with her grumpiest scowl in front of the children. Killian knew that if he saw that face on his aunt, _he_ would want to run, but he wasn't so sure about the bad guys.

The children listened in tense horror to quiet screams and grunts and other even more unpleasant sounds of battle. Finally, Christine reappeared at the door.

"It's alright now. You can come up," she announced.

The four remaining people climbed carefully into what used to be their living room but was now a graveyard for five soldiers.

Gavin was cursing quietly, his face in his hands. Beyond that, there was a tense silence. Killian ran to his mother first, then his father, wrapping his trembling arms around them tightly.

"Oh God," Sari muttered, looking at the mess.

"I second that," Christine stated, sounding remarkably calm under the circumstances.

"We'd better move quickly to get rid of the bodies," Edward muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"And where exactly do you propose we put them?" Gavin groaned. "Regardless, they're going to know some soldiers disappeared around this area, and they'll come back with a vengeance."

"Gavin, stop scaring the children," Christine ordered brusquely. "Hopefully the next soldiers won't look as well as these ones."

"The more they bring, the more likely it is that at least one of them will have a brain," Gavin pointed out pessimistically.

"Gavin!" Squeaked Sari, smacking her husband on the arm. "This is not helping."

"Let's just focus on one problem at a time," Christine added.

"Perhaps we should burn them," suggested Edward, prodding one of the bodies distastefully with his foot.

"The smell would attract every guard within several blocks," Christine pointed out. "No, we need to either bury them or throw them in the ocean. Since the latter would be infinitely more difficult, we need to find a place to bury them."

"Our house," Sari suggested suddenly. "We could build a cellar like our hiding place here, but only fill it up again. They can be buried in our main room. It's disgusting, but-"

"But practical," Christine agreed, kissing her sister gently on the cheek. "Brilliant plan."

"Thank you. But if we're haunted by any specters, I'm moving in."

"You practically live here anyway," Edward pointed out with a faint grin.

Gavin groaned. "Bloody- God- fu-"

"Language!" Sari barked.

"Yes, you're right," he finished weakly.

"Liam, can I put you on clean-up duty?" Ordered Christine.

He nodded, looking proud.

"Children? Cleaning up... this?" Sari balked.

"Christine is right. Haste is important here," Edward confirmed. "We need everyone to dig who possibly can."

Liam, Killian, and Ciarra were soon scrubbing away at the floor with matching disgust, while their parents dug and transported bodies in potato sacks-

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"That's a lot of potatoes," Emma commented, sounding skeptical.<p>

"I didn't say that they were whole," Killian pointed out.

The words caused Emma to blanch.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>That night, the entire family sat around the Jones table for dinner. For the first ten minutes, everyone was in a miserable mood. Then, almost everyone dissolved into hysterical laughter led by Gavin.<p>

"It's really... not... funny... Gavin-" Sari tittered, leaning against him for support.

"It's not. It's stress," agreed Christine, who was the only adult who hadn't succumbed to the laughter.

Killian stared at the adults, dumbfounded. He had barely touched his dinner because he was feeling ill from the cleaning, and he'd been trying to sneak it into Ciarra's waiting hands to give to the rats. It was much easier now that the adults were distracted, but he was too shocked by this turn of events to take advantage of it.

"Killian, sweetheart, could you play for us? Perhaps some music would calm everyone down," Christine suggested, staring pointedly at his half-full plate. He could never fool her.

He eagerly slipped off of his chair and grabbed his violin from the hiding spot (he hadn't wanted to leave it where someone could steal it). He began to play but paused several minutes in when he realized that Sari was laughing so hard she was crying.

"What?" He asked, slightly offended.

"It's just, that song is so creepy... it makes me think of the evil ghosts inevitably haunting my kitchen," she gasped.

"Good, that was the inspiration," he replied proudly.

The entire table burst into laughter at that.

"Oh, God. How has this become normal?" Edward asked nobody in particular, eyes heavenward.

Christine gripped his hand at that. It was only then that Killian realized that she was crying.

"Mama?"

Everyone turned and Christine buried her face in her hands.

"God... I am so sorry..." she sobbed.

"For what, love? There's nothing to apologize for," Edward told her, pulling her head gently to his shoulder.

"It was just... too close... Edward. Gavin is... right. From this point on..."

The unfinished sentence hung in the air, but even Killian and Ciarra could fill in the ending. From this point on, it was just a matter of time before they were hunted down.

"We'll figure something out," Edward promised.

"Like what?" Christine demanded. "There's nothing left to do. We can't even leave... there are guards everywhere. The second we step foot on the docks or on a road out of the city..."

Again, she didn't finish. Killian wondered if it was some strange attempt at protecting them, as if saying the words would somehow make them true. They'd be arrested and murdered. He was almost seven by now; he could certainly fill in the blanks.

"You three should just move and pretend that you never knew us," Christine added to her sister, tears falling freely onto her bloodstained, formerly pale green dress.

"We could never do that," Sari promised quietly, and Gavin nodded solemnly in agreement.

"Then I'll have your blood on my hands as well," Christine wailed. "You could take Killian and Liam," she added, turning to them desperately with the sudden idea.

"And leave you two like rats in a trap?" Gavin countered. "Absolutely not. We're family."

"We're not even related," Christine tried desperately, her blue eyes wild. "Not by blood."

Sari's eyes narrowed dangerously and leaned across the table to grab her sister's hand. "Like hell, we're not. You're my sister in every other possible way."

Then, Edward interrupted with the idea that would determine the fate of every person in that room.

"Perhaps we're just not thinking about this in the right terms," Edward said quietly. "They're expecting to see a woman who looks like you and a man who looks like me traveling together. Perhaps the solution is simply to travel alone."

Silence fell over the room as his words fell.

"We could alter our appearances to a degree. I'm sure our appearances have changed somewhat, and we just need to take advantage of that. I could go first... I'll stowaway or bribe my way onto the next ship to the Southern Isles. I'll prepare a safe way for all of you and send someone to come get you, perhaps a native from the island. Then, you could cut your hair, Chris, perhaps even dress as a man. Two men and two boys traveling together surely wouldn't be suspicious. And no one will be looking for anyone who looks like you three," he added with a nod to Gavin and his family.

Christine was crying harder than ever now.

"What do you think?" Edward asked gently.

She looked up at him helplessly. "I don't want to be apart from you again. You know what happened last time!"

"Christine-"

"But I can recognize that it's our best chance," she added miserably. "So I know we have to try."

Killian looked frantically to Liam, hoping that he would intervene on their behalf. It was really their decision as well, wasn't it? But Liam's expression was grim, and he was giving Killian his bossy-big-brother-look that said to not interfere. Considering that it was their 'best chance', he couldn't really understand why everyone looked so miserable.

Edward left two days later.

"We'll see each other again soon," Edward promised as he tucked them in the night before he left. "You two be good for your mother."

"Papa? Will there be a naval school on the Southern Isles?" Inquired Liam, who knew his father had started studying at fourteen. In December, Liam would be fourteen, and had every hope of following in his father's (brief) naval footsteps.

Edward chuckled. "I imagine so, Liam."

He hugged a teary Killian last. With some final "I love you"s, he was gone.

Neither Christine nor Edward slept that night. In the end, Christine was still awake when he got up to leave in the early hours of the morning.

"Be safe," Christine begged, leaning her forehead against his and drinking in his familiar face for what would be the last time. Then, the couple shared a long, lingering kiss.

Edward pulled away first. "I have to leave now or I'll never make it," he murmured.

"Are you sure that we're doing the right thing?"

Christine eyes searched her husband's desperately, wishing that she had an excuse to force him to stay.

"Yes," Edward promised, giving her a last kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too," Christine said.

She watched from the doorway until he turned the corner. He waved at the end of the street, and then he was gone.

Sari came over that day to keep Christine company in her grief, but she had put her brave face back on. Killian knew that she missed his father, and he often saw it in lines of worry on her face when she thought no one could see her. She threw herself into caring for her children and writing in her journal fervently, as though sensing that the time she had left to leave her words behind was limited.

If Killian had to pinpoint a day that his life began its downward slope of fortune, January 9, 1808 was the clear choice.

Liam saw the soldiers coming at the end of the street, and he had only enough time to tell Christine and Killian to hide. Sari, Gavin, and Ciarra were down the street, but Christine comforted her boys by reminding them that the soldiers weren't there for them; really, their hiding was just a precaution.

There were more feet crashing above them than ever before. Killian leant into his mother and felt her reassuring heartbeat as she sang softly to comfort her children:

"_I love the rose both red and white_

_To hear of them is my delight_

_Joyed may we be a prince to see_

_And Roses Three._"*

When they heard the soldiers attempting to move the table over the trapdoor, Christine sighed as if she'd been expecting it.

"Stay hidden regardless of what you hear, and, Liam, take care of your brother," she told her sons urgently.

Christine crawled out as before, already wielding her knife expertly. There were cries and rough voices, but then one cry stood out among the others; a cry of pain from a woman. Then, Killian heard something that he'd never wanted to hear; he heard his mother begging.

"Please, not in front of my children. Do what you like to me, but, please, not here-"

Liam's eyes widened and he grabbed another knife. "Stay here, Killian."

Killian was too stunned to respond as Liam climbed out with an angry yell. "Leave her alone!"

There was a thump, and then a scream from Killian's mother.

Heart pounding, Killian silently crawled into the living room. Liam was lying unconscious near the kitchen table with a trickle of blood flowing from his head. From his position, Killian could see Liam's chest gently rising and falling. Not dead, then, just knocked out.

The other thing he saw was a soldier standing over his mother with a sword in her abdomen. Killian felt his blood chill in his veins, and, before he could think about it, he'd picked up his brother's forgotten knife and had run it into his mother's attacker's back. The only problem was that he hadn't anticipated how difficult it was to stab someone, and he was very little, which meant that the knife did not go in far enough to kill. It only went in far enough to cause him to scream and turn around angrily.

He disarmed Killian with a simple flick of his sword, his face furious. Killian backed against the wall away from the sword as the man advanced. It was touching his chest when another soldier pushed it away.

"Our orders were to kill the woman and her husband, not children," he said sternly.

"The bastard stabbed me," argued the angry man.

"You heard me," the other said coolly, with a look of something almost like pity towards Killian.

"Well, I can at least teach him a lesson," the angry man snapped coldly. The other man shrugged and nodded towards the remaining living guards, gesturing for them to leave.

The angry man moved his sword back towards Killian and very deliberately pushed it into his cheek. Killian tried to be as brave as his mother and not cry out, but a whimper emerged in spite of his efforts.

"You are nothing," the angry man told him. "Understand? Nothing."

Then, he wiped his sword on Killian's shirt and left.

For a minute, all Killian could focus on was his rapidly beating heart, the sting in his cheek, and the hot blood dripping down his chin onto his shirt. Then, he remembered.

"Mama!"

He stumbled over to Christine, who was half-sitting against the wall. Her face looked far too pale against her dark curls, and he'd never seen so much blood in his life. What colour had her dress been before? He was certain that it had been white, but now it was blossoming into a terrifying dark red.

Her eyes fluttered open briefly with a groan, focusing on her younger son.

"Liam?" She whispered.

"He's alive," Killian confirmed shakily, wrapping his arms around his mother's neck and looking nervously into her dazed eyes. "What shall I do now? Should I get Aunt Sari?"

"Mmm," Christine agreed. "Find Sari. You all... need to... leave now...hide somewhere. I imagine... Lord Alasdair and King... will want you dead... eventually. They're nothing... if not thorough. Wait for Edward... send my love..."

"You can't die," Killian told her, leaning his face against his mother's and smelling the familiar scent of cinnamon on her.

Christine chuckled weakly. "My darling, I would... never leave you... if I had the choice."

"Then you have to stay," he told her stubbornly, wiping away tears and blood from his face. "We need you."

"Oh, my love," Christine sighed, pulling him gently against her and beginning to hum the lullaby from before.

"Stop it. I should be comforting _you_," Killian cried into her shoulder. "Please don't leave."

"Killian-" She began, tears welling up in her own eyes.

"_Please_," he begged.

"I love you... so much, Killian. Tell Liam... how much I loved him... too. I'm not so certain... that death is the end. I'll watch you whenever... I can... maybe I can send you a sign... I'll get a little bird... to sing to you... and I'll be so proud of you," she promised softly, cradling her son's uninjured cheek. "I already am."

Christine's eyes started to drift shift.

"Wait!" Killian sobbed desperately. "Don't close your eyes, please!"

To be fair to her, she listened to her son's request. Christine smiled lovingly at him and forced her eyes open.

They stayed that way.

It all looked so wrong. His mother's face was stuck and her smile was hers but her eyes weren't. She would never look at him so blankly.

That was when it hit him. There would be no more singing in the mornings, no cinnamon-scented hugs, no games, no stories, no playing violin for her and seeing the glimmer of pride in her eyes. There would be no more confidential smiles that made him feel like a conspirator in a great plot, no more licking the spoon when she made pie, no more being praised for cleverness, no more jokes with his father, no more musical laughter, no more soft cotton dresses to dry his tears. She'd never do her brilliant character voices as she read to him again. She'd never gently chide him for being so precocious. She'd never listen to him so attentively again, or see right through his latest schemes.

She was gone.

* * *

><p>*From anon. Tudor poem. This particular extract of text is from Libby Larsen's "Jane Seymour" from "Try Me, Good King".<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

The Present

* * *

><p>Silence fell as the musical voice of her companion drifted away. Emma glanced at him, waiting for him to continue, only to see that his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. It was not a sight she'd been expecting, and perhaps she wouldn't have noticed at all if the sun hadn't risen enough to finally give her a view of his face.<p>

Emma looked at her hands, unsure of what to say. She wasn't entirely sure that she should say anything. Killian had known this woman for only seven of more than two hundred years of life; if recounting her death was still so painful, she doubted that anything she could say would make it even remotely better.

"Are you still bleeding?" She asked instead, deciding to pretend that she hadn't noticed anything.

"Pardon me?" If Killian's voice was slightly thick with emotion, Emma didn't let on.

"You know, that hole in your side?"

"Oh, that." Killian sounded genuinely surprised, as though he'd forgotten about it entirely. Perhaps he had.

He felt along his side with his still bloodstained hand. "Nothing. That's fortunate."

Emma frowned and moved to look at it herself.

"You know, if you want to put your hands on me, Swan, no excuse is necessary," he teased, although it lacked some of his usual enthusiasm.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that he'd been telling the truth. While she wasn't exactly squeamish, the thought of helping a one-handed pirate sew himself up with a needle and thread was definitely not on her bucket list.

"Perhaps we ought to stop with that, Swan," Killian commented with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I imagine that you could use some sleep, and I imagine that's enough backstory for a lifetime."

"You're not getting out of it that easily," Emma said pointedly. "You barely even talked about yourself at all."

Killian groaned dramatically. "You asked about my _parents_, Swan, not me."

"And I don't seem to remember you saying what happened to your dad," Emma retorted. "You didn't finish."

"He died. Finished," Killian smirked.

"Did you ever see him again?"

Killian rolled his eyes. "Yes."

Emma frowned. "Fine, then, I'll change my question. Tell me about what happened to you and your family next."

"As much as I hate to fault a lady on her verbiage, that is not a question."

"Killian!" Emma snapped.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Killian lost track of time after that. He lay curled against his mother, crying into her shoulder. He could almost pretend that she was still alive that way. When Liam regained consciousness, that was how he found his brother.<p>

"Is she dead?" He asked in a choked voice, although he must have known just from looking at the blood and the vacant eyes.

Killian nodded. "She said that she loves you," he gasped between sobs that shook his small body.

After a moment's hesitation, Liam knelt down and gently closed his mother's unseeing eyes.

"We should go in case they come back," he said brokenly, rubbing at his wet eyes.

"Mightn't we bury her first? We should get Uncle Gavin-"

"I don't think that's possible," Liam replied tightly. "Go pack a change of clothes and whatever else you may need. We won't be able to come back."

Killian only burrowed deeper into his mother.

Liam sighed and knelt down beside him. "She's gone, Killian. There's nothing we can do for her now, but we can do what she'd want us to do; leave as quickly as possible."

"I don't want to," Killian whimpered. "I want her to come back."

"I know," Liam said, gently extracting Killian from Christine's body and pulling him into a tight hug. When he pulled away, he saw Killian's face fully for the first time and gasped in horror. "What did they do to you?!"

"Cut my face open," he replied dully.

"We'll have to get Sari to look at that," Liam muttered, before dropping down before their mother. Carefully, he started to pull her rings off of her fingers and unclasp her locket.

"What are you doing?" Killian demanded, starting to push his brother away.

"They'll only be stolen, otherwise," Liam explained. "Go pack, alright?"

Ten minutes later, Killian carefully gave his mother a last kiss on her now cold forehead and left his childhood home forever. With him, he had his mother's diary, a change of clothes, his composition book with some loose compositions tucked in it, a pencil, and his violin. The instrument was bulky, but he couldn't leave it behind. Liam had food, clothes, a few of his mother's personal items, and the remaining family money supply. Liam half-ran to his Aunt's house, pulling along a much slower Killian by the hand.

They knew something was wrong the second that they reached the front door. It was hanging off of its hinges as though it had been bashed in. Hearts pounding, the boys tiptoed into the house and let out mutual cries of horror.

The entire room was pervaded by the coppery stench of blood, and, just barely detectable, the earthy smell of soil. Bodies littered the floor of their Aunt and Uncle's home, both of friend and foe. Scanning the chaos quickly, Killian realized that Christine had managed to kill as many soldiers on her own as her sister and her husband had together. Maybe the thought should have filled Killian with pride, but, instead, he felt a strange numbness settling in.

His Aunt and Uncle were dead.

Uncle Gavin was underneath Aunt Sari, as though he'd been struck down first and she'd died trying to shield her wounded husband. She lay sprawled across him with what looked like the body of a scent-hound beside her. The bodies of soldiers littered the rest of the room. The rats were gone, and, noticeably, Ciarra also appeared to be absent. Perhaps, the strangest part of the whole scene was the hole in the floor, as though a giant had take a huge bite out of the living room.

"They were looking for the soldiers," Killian realized. "The ones that they buried under the floor..."

Liam nodded grimly.

"Ciarra!" He shouted.

The house echoed in a way that made Killian feel incredibly lonely. He inched closer to Liam, shivering.

"Maybe she ran away too?" Killian suggested timidly.

"Let's hope so," Liam agreed, looking absolutely horrified. "At least Mama and Aunt Sari never... I guess the good part is that..."

"They never had to live without each other," Killian finished, wiping at the tears falling rapidly down his face and stinging his cut cheek.

"We should go," Liam said abruptly, turning around and leaving. As soon as he was out of the house, he dropped to all fours and started vomiting. Killian just watched, still feeling strangely numb.

Once his brother had finished, Killian asked the question that was now flooding his mind. "Where do we go?"

"We just have to wait for Papa to come back. When he can't reach us and he knows there's a problem, he'll come find us," Liam said confidently.

"Okay," Killian agreed dully. "So... to Uncle Connor?"

Liam blanched. "No. I don't even know where he lives, and I'm not going to live with him. He's worse than the soldiers. We'll be fine on our own."

Killian nodded, shivering lightly in the chill January air.

That night, he and Liam found a back alleyway to sleep in near the closest graveyard. Liam said he wanted to be there to see their family members buried. Killian thought it was a stupid idea, but he was too sad to say so, so he just curled around Liam and tried his best to sleep in spite of the wind and the cold

The next day, the funerals took place. Apparently Connor had heard the news, because he and Helena were there. Beyond that, no one was. No one wanted to be associated with someone the king wanted dead. There were three tombstones, which the two boys found odd, because they had no idea who would have paid for them. Their questions were answered that evening when a solitary figure came to visit the fresh graves.

"The dog-man!" Killian whispered, shocked.

He stood at each grave for a moment, but paused the longest at his mother's. After a few minutes of what looked like quiet monologuing, he saluted the headstone solemnly and left.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"That's just creepy!" Emma exclaimed, shivering at the thought.<p>

"Well, my mother was the best opponent he ever had," Killian said with a shrug. "He wanted to acknowledge the loss of a worthy foe."

"Still creepy," Emma replied.

"I fully agree," Killian acknowledged with a tilt of his head.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>After the dog-man left, Killian and Liam wandered over to pay their respects. Killian had a strong urge to plunge his hands into the dirt and dig until he could get his mother out. Everything seemed so surreal and <em>wrong<em>. Maybe she would come back if she wasn't stuck underneath all of that earth.

Instead, he stubbornly planted himself on the freshly turned soil, curled up against the gravestone, and slept there. He slept there the next night, too, even though it snowed. No matter what Liam said, he couldn't get Killian to move from that spot until the food ran out a few days later.

"Killian, I'm going to buy something to eat. Will you come?" He asked tiredly.

Killian only curled more tightly into himself and listened as Liam walked reluctantly away.

He came back far more quickly with angry tears running down his face, an impressive assortment of bruises, and a rapidly swelling right eye. He pulled Killian to his feet in spite of his protests, grabbed their few belongings, and continued to sprint. When he finally stopped, they were in a narrow alleyway in a part of the city that Killian didn't even recognize. Then Liam collapsed against the wall and cried.

Killian figured that his brother would explain when he felt like it, so he collapsed against the wall too and waited.

"They took our money. I was so stupid, Killian, I should have left half with you, but they stole it," he cried into his hands.

"Who?" He asked. He was still feeling peculiarly numb and was finding it hard to care about the money.

"A few boys in an alley," his brother mumbled in defeat. "What are we going to do now?"

Killian shrugged and curled up into a ball again. It didn't really matter whether he froze to death in a graveyard or an alleyway, or whether he did it on a full stomach or an empty one.

"Hey! Get lost!" Liam shouted suddenly.

Killian lifted his head to see a shadow duck behind a doorway.

"Is it one of the boys that attacked you?" He whispered.

Liam frowned. "I don't care; whoever it is will likely rob us as soon as look at us."

The shadow shifted again, and Liam threw a rock towards him. He missed by enough that Killian knew he wasn't really trying to hit him, but it still made Killian jump.

"Stay away, or I won't miss next time," Liam threatened.

The shadow didn't move again. Night fell, and with it came fat, wet snowflakes blown down onto the children by a harsh winter wind. Killian huddled against Liam, who began to snore softly as he slept. Sleep didn't come as easily to Killian now that he was away from his mother. The alleyway smelled like piss, smoke, and cold. He missed the smell of cinnamon and even the smell of soil. He felt oddly distant from his mother here.

He was lying awake when he saw the shadow move. Even from a distance, he could determine several things; the figure was shivering violently, the figure must have been around his age, and he had no shoes.

"Liam?"

His brother woke up with a grunt. "Mmm?"

"I'm worried that he's going to freeze," Killian muttered.

Liam sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Killian-"

"He doesn't have shoes. And there's two of us but only one of him."

Liam groaned disbelievingly.

"Fine, you can invite him to join us, but only because that's the most I've heard you say all week," he mumbled, turning over towards the wall.

Killian pulled himself to his feet and approached the doorway. The shadow seemed to shrink further into the other shadows as he came closer.

"If you're cold, you can come with us. My brother can be bossy and annoying, but he won't hurt you," Killian promised.

The figure emerged from the shadows, and Killian was surprised to see that it wasn't a boy at all. It was a skinny girl with long, unmanageable dark curls and piercing grey eyes, who Killian would guess was maybe a year or two older than him. Her dress was filthy and several inches too short, exposing filthy bare feet.

"Where are your shoes?" He blurted curiously.

"Someone stole them," the girl replied with a shrug, wiggling her toes in rhythm with her words.

"Why would someone steal shoes?" Killian scoffed.

"Because they needed some. If I found someone with shoes available for me to take, I'd take them," she said in the same bossy way that Killian was used to hearing from Liam.

She peered at him curiously. "What happened to your face?"

Killian scowled. "I cut it myself to scare away annoying girls."

The girl looked impressed. "Really? You cut your own face?"

"No. A soldier did it when he murdered my mother," he admitted.

"Oh. That's even more interesting," she said with approval. "I'm Milah. What's your name?"

"Killian," he replied. "And my brother is Liam. Where are your parents?"

"They were burned alive," Milah said with relish. "I could fit through the window, so I wasn't. All that was left afterwards was a pile of ash and bones and a horrible smell. The king burned down my whole village because our neighbours hid a criminal."

"Honestly?" Killian furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes, indeed," Milah confirmed dreamily. "You should have heard the screaming. How about your parents?"

"My mother was stabbed. We're waiting for my father to find us," Killian explained.

Milah looked at him pityingly.

"He will," Killian repeated, somewhat doubtfully.

"I'm waiting for my uncle to die so he can never find me," Milah told him cheerfully.

"Why?" Killian asked in confusion.

"Because he'll sell me into prostitution or, worse, force me to get married," Milah said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"You're not old enough to get married, are you?"

"Well, no. I'm nine. But that wouldn't stop him," she said darkly. She interrupted herself to let her teeth chatter.

"We have extra clothes," Killian offered, leading her over to his brother, who was asleep once again.

He dug through his small bag and found socks first. He tossed them to Milah, who fumbled them with cold fingers but put them on gratefully.

"What's that?" She was peering into his bag with interest.

Killian followed her gaze. "A violin."

"Can I touch it?" Milah asked curiously.

"No."

Killian tossed her his one extra shirt next, which Milah wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl.

"Thank you," she said seriously.

"You're welcome," Killian said with a shrug.

Then, the two children curled up next to Liam. Killian lifted his brother's arm and put it over them for extra warmth.

"He sleeps like the dead," Milah commented sleepily.

Killian grinned. He fell asleep soon afterwards and slept the best he had since his mother's death.

* * *

><p>"You're going to have to learn to steal sooner or later," Milah reasoned.<p>

Liam scowled down at her. "Absolutely not. It's wrong. I'll just have to find a job."

"Looking like that?" Milah retorted skeptically.

Killian barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The number of times he'd had to listen to Milah and Liam have this conversation were becoming uncountable. They had now been homeless for a total of two weeks. Killian was feeling sick from the general lack of food and even from what little they had eaten. Over the past week, they'd found half of a fish that someone had dropped on the way home from the docks (the other half had been eaten by the dog that got there first), a burnt loaf of bread outside of a house (the birds had gotten to that one first), and a dead rat-

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma choked.<p>

"A dead rat?"

Killian shrugged. "Hardly ideal, but one becomes far less picky when one is starving."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>-which was hardly enough to sustain three growing children. They were all thin and pale, and both Liam and Killian had old blood dripped onto their clothes. Beyond that, they were all filthy. Killian couldn't imagine them being hired to clean a chimney in their current state. However, he also knew his brother well enough to know that Liam was stuck on his annoying overly-righteous morals. In other words, Milah was wasting her breath.<p>

"We're not stealing," Liam said flatly.

Killian sighed. His brother could be irritatingly stubborn sometimes.

That was why he later snuck off with Milah to take matters into his own hands.

"Alright. Here's the plan. You're smaller, but your face makes you look like a serial killer and you're a boy. That means that I'm cuter, so I'll be a better distraction. All you have to do is take advantage of it and take as much food as you can carry," Milah muttered under her breath.

They were huddled at the edge of the marketplace together, waiting in the shadows and watching the busy square packed with soldiers, stands, and shoppers.

"Should we have a meeting place in case something goes wrong?" Killian whispered.

"Good idea. That street with the church behind the alley where we left Liam," Milah decided.

Then she stepped out with a bright smile to the nearest stall, which happened to be stuffed with bread and pastries. The vendor immediately narrowed his gaze on the girl. Killian imagined that they were probably very skilled at determining who was actually there to buy their wares and who was there for trouble. Milah was sadly thin and filthy, with her curls matted to her head. She still had no shoes, only soaked and greying socks. You didn't have to be genius to know that she was penniless.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Killian slipped over to the other side of the stand. With a quick look around to make sure that the vendor's back was still turned, he grabbed a loaf of bread and several pastries and stuffed them down his shirt. He was just turning to leave when a well-dressed man grabbed his arm.

"Thief!" He yelled loudly, his face turning purple.

Killian looked up at the man and screwed up his face, trying to force tears out of his eyes.

"Crying won't help you," the man said sternly as some soldiers started to move towards them.

Killian scowled and stomped the man's foot as hard as he could. With a yelp, the man let go and Killian sprinted away. Soldiers were attempting to follow, but Killian was small which meant that he could slip more easily between the members of the confused crowd in the marketplace. He slipped into an alleyway as soon as he could and continued to run. Now that the terror had started to fade, it was being replaced by exhilaration. He was going to get to eat, and he'd also made several soldiers look like idiots; really, what could be better?

He reached the meeting place before Milah did, but Milah arrived only a few minutes later with a smirk on her face.

"I thought that the man you stomped on was going to cry," Milah commented with a wicked glint in her eye.

"Good," Killian grinned. "He was a prat."

Liam was furious about the stealing incident, but he found himself unable to stop his brother from doing it again. At first, he refused to eat the stolen food, but then Killian made up elaborate stories about how he'd found whatever food he happened to bring to his brother. He knew that Liam didn't believe his stories, but he also knew that Liam was relieved to be able to eat without having to directly betray his morals. He didn't really understand his brother's ridiculous stubbornness and Milah certainly didn't, but he was willing to cater to him. After all, he could acknowledge that Liam really took very good care of him under the circumstances.

Killian got better and better at stealing, until he almost never got caught. If it ever crossed his mind to wonder what his parents might say if they could see him now, he pushed it away. Surely they would want him to survive, wouldn't they?

Months passed, and, while neither brother voiced it, both were beginning to doubt whether there father was actually coming back for them. In fact, perhaps it was optimistic of them to assume that their father had made it to the Southern Isles alive at all. Besides, while Killian knew that Liam was sad to give up his dream of becoming a naval officer, he also knew that they were quite capable of surviving on their own. It certainly may not have been an ideal situation, and it was true that they were always a little bit hungry, but they had each other and they hadn't died yet. Killian was quite proud of that.

As a result, it was a bit of a shock when Edward did come back.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"You look surprised," Killian commented drily.<p>

Feeling oddly guilty at being called out on it, Emma struggled for words.

"Well, it's just... you don't seem to... well, like him very much."

Killian snorted. "Is it that obvious? Well, I assure you that the reasons for that will become very plain. Unless you wish for me to stop?"

Emma just glared at him.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for," Killian sighed.


	15. Chapter 15

The Past

* * *

><p>It started with whispers in the marketplace.<p>

"I hear the Queen is infertile-"

"How long before she loses her head?"

"Miscarriage after miscarriage, I hear-"

"The king is furious-"

"They won't execute a Larkin-"

"Well, there's no child yet, and they've been married for years. No wonder his patience is running thin-"

"Hates her now, apparently-"

Killian frowned and pulled Milah away from the fish stand, where she was currently pushing several salmon up her sleeve while pretending to admire the cod. He ignored her protests as he led her towards the docks, where Liam was still attempting to find work with no success.

"What's 'infertile' Liam? And what is a 'miscarriage'?" Killian questioned as Milah extracted a fish from her dress and bit into the tail.

His brother bit back a faintly amused smile. "Why do you ask?"

"There were people in the market speaking about Aunt Jayne and using those words," Killian explained.

Lines of worry worked their way onto Liam's forehead. "Well, miscarriage is when a pregnant woman loses the baby-"

"Loses?"

"When it dies before it can be born. And infertile means unable to bear children," Liam said.

Killian sat and thought for a moment. "So Aunt Jayne can't become pregnant?"

"Well, those are just rumours," Liam dismissed, but Killian thought he was too pale to truly believe that.

"And what if they aren't?" Killian prodded.

"Then the king won't have any use for her. He'll need a new queen who can give him an heir," his brother told him solemnly.

Killian felt himself go pale. He didn't want to lose another family member.

That night, he looked up to the stars overhead and muttered, "Please don't let Aunt Jayne be executed."

A few weeks later towards the end of September, he joined the crowd outside of the palace to watch her die.

She looked just as he remembered her, if a bit smaller and paler. Nevertheless, while she was shaking, she walked up to the executioner without hesitation and gave him a polite nod.

"I would say 'God save the king', but I feel that he is beyond redemption. Instead, I say, God save the people of this kingdom, particularly the innocent, for the king would destroy them all."

"Can't we do something?" Killian begged Liam as their aunt lowered her neck onto the block. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving very quickly and inaudibly, likely in a quiet prayer. Killian thought she was wasting her breath.

Liam shook his head. "Not without dying ourselves. Besides, we'd never make it in time."

He was right. Just as he finished speaking, the axe fell. Killian winced.

"That's disgusting," Milah commented, looking towards what was left of their aunt distastefully.

"Let's go," Liam muttered, steering his two younger companions away from the scene.

Killian lingered behind to say a quiet goodbye to his aunt. As he turned to leave, he crashed into someone. He looked up to apologize when he realized that something about the man was extremely familiar, from his grey hair to his handkerchief to his disgusting scent.

"You!" He blurted, glaring at the dog-man.

The man looked at him in confusion until recognition registered in his granite eyes. As soon as it did, a small, cold smile spread across his face.

"Ah, if it isn't my grandson," he purred. "We do seem to have an unfortunate habit of running into one another."

Killian's jaw dropped. As soon as the dog-man said the words, he felt ridiculously stupid for not guessing who he was earlier. Of _course_ this was his grandfather.

"Maybe if you were less _fat_, it would be less habitual," Killian suggested.

The dog-man - his grandfather - grimaced, but his eyes were amused. "Charming. I see that your tongue is as filthy as you are. Not to worry, though; I can overlook your impudence because I imagine that everyone must look obese when one is as pathetically tiny as you."

"My size and cleanliness can't be helped, but you could just eat less or take your head out of your arse and look where you're going. I'm only eight and I can still insult people better than you," Killian retorted, sticking his tongue out.

The man didn't react, but just continued to scrutinize him as if he were a particularly interesting animal in a menagerie. "You certainly take after your mother, don't you?"

"None of your business," Killian said petulantly, although he was secretly proud. His mother could have a scathing tongue when she wanted to.

"Where's your father?" Asked Lord Alasdair, clearly tiring of their banter.

"Who?" His grandson replied innocently.

"My son. Edward Larkin," Lord Alasdair said slowly as if dealing with someone particularly dim-witted.

"Oh, him. My mother mentioned him once." Killian screwed up his face in thought. "Was he the one who you locked up for sleeping around?"

Lord Alasdair sighed and gripped Killian's forearm so hard that it made him wince.

"We can make this simple, or we can make this painful," Lord Alasdair hissed in Killian's ear, his disgustingly smooth face rubbing against his grandson's. "You can either tell me now, or I can take you to some men in prison who can tear you to pieces until you tell me every miserable detail about everything I wish to know. Understood?"

"I don't think so," cut in a deep voice quietly.

Lord Alasdair paused and slowly raised his head. Killian looked up and realized it was because someone was pushing a knife lightly into his grandfather's back. The man looked exhausted and thinner than Killian remembered, and he now had a beard, but he recognized him nonetheless.

"Papa!" He breathed.

Edward barely looked at him before turning back to his own father.

"Hello, father. Since we last met, you've had me locked away and tortured, murdered my mother, made my life and my family's a living hell, allowed my sister to be murdered, and, on top of everything else, I understand that you've murdered my wife while I've been away. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right here," Edward growled, his whole body shaking with fury.

"Well, Edward, I can give you several," Lord Alasdair said calmly, a small smirk on his face. "First of all, I could call for any of the soldiers around the area and have you and your son murdered-"

"Not if I kill you first," Edward snarled.

"Or, if you let me live, we could work together to overthrow Julian and sit you on the throne. That was my plan before you ran off with that woman, you know. Now that she's gone-"

Edward laughed without humour. "You honestly believe that I would choose to side with _you_?"

"Not to mention that patricide and murder would be a terrible example for your son-"

"How dare you talk to me about my son," Edward snarled.

"And I believe you're far too gutless to commit murder in public. Especially when it would likely leave your child fatherless."

"It would?" Killian looked to his father worriedly for confirmation.

"If he was caught," agreed Lord Alasdair smugly. "And he would be. Right now there are multiple guards in the vicinity with the sole aim of keeping any members of the nobility safe."

"Papa...?" Killian started nervously.

"He's bluffing, Killian," Edward replied firmly, pressing the knife a little bit further into his father's skin.

"Am I?" Asked Lord Alasdair mildly.

"Papa!" Killian said more urgently. "Please. Liam and I already lost Mama. We don't want to lose you too."

Edward paused and really looked at his son for the first time. Killian held his gaze pleadingly. He wanted his grandfather dead as much as the next person, but now that his father was back again, he wanted nothing less than to disappear with him and never come back.

The pause seemed to drag on for some time, but, finally, with a flash of anger, Edward lowered the knife.

"He's right. You're not worth it."

Killian was about to hug his father when he saw Alasdair open his mouth, take a deep breath and-

With a scowl, Killian jammed his knee up between his grandfather's legs and watched him collapse. Both Edward and Alasdair looked shocked, although the latter soon let out a groan and dropped to his knees.

"Can we go now?" Killian begged, glancing around at the dwindling number of people nervously. Was it his imagination, or were some of them moving towards his father determinedly?

Edward nodded with a faint smile, and Killian led him to what had become the children's alleyway of choice. There was a brief and tearful reunion, which Milah watched unhappily from the sidelines.

"And who are you?" Edward finally asked with a frown.

She jutted her chin out defiantly. "Milah."

"And where's your family?"

Milah's eyes lit up as they always did when she got to recount the gruesome story. "My parents burned alive. My only remaining uncle is up North, and I'm waiting for him to die too."

For a moment, Edward just looked at her strangely. Then he shook his head. "We can talk more once we get inside. I rented a room not far from here."

It turned out that "talking more" meant deciding what to do with the three children. Edward briefly explained that he had to leave the city very soon. He would probably have to travel around a lot and sometimes even run away very quickly, which meant that it might be difficult to have three children with him. In the end, the decision was quite easy. Liam solemnly told his father that he still wished to train for the navy. He insisted that there would be no danger, since his parentage was unclear through his last name and he'd never even met their grandfather. It took very little time to convince Edward, who gave him most of the money he had to cover his schooling.

From there, it was decided that Edward would pay someone to take Milah north to her uncle, and Killian would go with him. Milah was certainly unhappy with that, but Edward refused to listen to her complaints and gently assured her that being with her family was what would be best for her.

The next day, the four split up. Milah gave her two companions a firm handshake.

"I'll miss robbing people with you," she told Killian sadly.

Then she was gone, leaving both Jones brothers feeling a little bit put out.

Saying goodbye to Liam was by far the hardest part of the day, though. Killian blinked back tears as his brother wrapped him in a tight hug. It was going to be strange spending each day away from Liam. Over the last year, he had seemed like the one constant in his life. As much as he hated to admit it, he thought he'd even miss Liam's nagging and bossiness. At least the lectures and fussing had reminded him that he still had someone who cared about him.

Finally, it was just Killian and Edward.

"To the ships?" Edward suggested, ruffling his son's hair half-heartedly.

Killian nodded sadly.

"Cheer up, lad. You and I are going to travel the world. Maybe we'll even travel to new ones," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Do those exist?" Killian asked, perking up slightly.

"Some would say so," agreed his father.

"That isn't a _real_ answer," Killian muttered, but his father was no longer listening.

Seagulls were screaming as they climbed onto their ship of choice, which was going to stop at several Southern ports along the way before going along its trading route. Killian couldn't help being a little bit excited; he'd heard about ships and watched them from the shore for most of his childhood, but he'd never actually been on one. Even tied to the docks, it bucked and skittered on the waves like something alive.

Edward went to their cabin when they cast off, but Killian watched until the shore disappeared into the distance. When he happily went down to join his father, he was surprised to see him staring vacantly at the wall with moist eyes.

That night, his father cried. At first Killian thought he was imagining it, but as it crescendoed, it became harder and harder to ignore.

"It's alright, Papa," he said, wrapping his arms around his father.

His father gave no sign of actually hearing him, but simply continued to cry into his hands. After at least an hour of trying to get a response, Killian simply gave up and went back to sleep.

The next morning, Edward acted as if nothing had happened.

"What do you think of the ship?" He broke the silence conversationally as they shared a small breakfast.

Killian lifted one eyebrow skeptically. "Are you alright, Papa?"

Edward winced and rubbed his eyes. "Please don't do that."

His son blinked in confusion. "Do what?"

"Make that face," he snapped.

Shock and hurt ran over Killian's face. His father had never used that tone with him before in his life.

"Alright," he said quietly.

He ate the rest of his breakfast very quickly and scampered up to the deck. At least up there, he didn't have to deal with this strange man who seemed to have replaced his father.

His father cried again that night: loud, wracking sobs that shook the bed. With a sigh, Killian sat up.

"Papa?"

Edward turned around so abruptly that Killian jumped, his eyes wild even in the dim light.

"What?!" He hissed angrily, fists clenched.

His son recoiled. "I miss her too," Killian finally muttered timidly.

Then, Edward gently pulled his son into his arms and continued crying. Killian felt very stifled, but he didn't want to upset his father any further by pulling away.

"I'm so sorry," Edward was sobbing over and over again.

"For what?" Killian asked, baffled.

"You look so much like her," he finally whimpered.

Killian didn't really know what to say to that, so he just let his father continue his noisy grief ritual.

He managed to avoid his father for the entirety of the next day, but the next night was even worse.

"Why did you keep me from killing him?" He whispered brokenly.

"Who?" Killian mumbled, half-asleep and doubly exhausted from the past two sleepless nights.

His father shook him awake angrily. "My _father_. Why did you have to look at me with _her_ eyes and tell me that I was doing the wrong thing? He'll come after us now, and it's entirely your fault. Think of all the people I could have saved if you'd just let me!"

"I-I'm sorry," Killian stammered in response.

"It was like with my mother all over again," he muttered. "All about doing what's best for the children or for the most people. Well, dammit, that man deserved to die. Why didn't you let me do it? How is it that, inevitably, whatever I try to do for the good of my family is _selfish_?! Why wasn't it selfish for your mother to choose our family over my mother, or for you to choose my life over my father's?"

His voice rose to a shout by the end, and then he just collapsed into silent sobs again. Killian just stared at him, trying to calculate whether or not he would be able to make it out the door without his father catching him if he went while Edward was distracted.

"Killian, I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?" He cried, staring at his son intently through his tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Sure, father," Killian mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

"You've never called me that before," Edward snapped, rage flashing back into his eyes again.

"Papa," Killian corrected with a small wince.

"I need to go for a walk," his father muttered, standing and leaving abruptly.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as soon as his father was out of sight.

The next morning, though, all relief dissipated when he awoke to a sword pressed lightly against his throat.

"Where's your father gone, boy?" The guard grunted.

Killian blinked in confusion. "I'm... not sure."

Another guard entered, panting heavily. "He's not on the ship, sir. We've searched everywhere."

He felt his heart sink and his eyes fill with tears. Surely they'd missed somewhere?

"Where would he have gone? We're in the middle of the ocean," Killian blurted frantically.

The guard with the sword at his throat lowered it with a sigh. "No, lad, you docked this morning."

"You mean...?" Killian trailed off uncertainly, feeling as if he'd just been dropped into some sort of a bad dream.

"He's fled," the guard said. "The man was a fugitive."

"From Lord Alasdair?" Killian finished, heart pounding.

The man looked at him in confusion. "No. Well, partially. He assaulted him, but, before that, he stole a lot of money. He fled the city a few days later with you. Do you have any idea where the money would be now?"

Killian's heart sunk. He knew exactly where it was: with Liam, paying for him to go to school. Before that, maybe paying to rent a room. Before that, who knows?

"No, sir," he replied dully, hugging his knees in a small, desperate attempt at comfort.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma looked at her companion sadly. "Maybe he saw the guards and had to run, but planned on coming back later?"<p>

Killian shook his head. "No. I thought of that as well, but all of his belongings were gone. They were there the night before, which meant that he definitely made a conscious decision to leave without me."

"I'm sorry," Emma said quietly.

Killian shrugged. "At least he died painfully."

Emma just looked at him, shocked.

"Hung, drawn, and quartered just over a year later. I attended the execution, in fact; it seemed like the right thing to do, even though it was rather gruesome. However, I've always taken comfort in the knowledge that my father died long before that man did," he finished bitterly.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>It took several months for Killian to work his way back to his hometown on that ship. It was an unpleasant time in which he grieved the loss of his father and brother and was generally treated unkindly.<p>

With one thing and another, Killian found himself standing outside of his uncle's house exactly a year after the death of his mother. It was snowing gently on the house, and he could hear the wailing of an infant from inside. It was small, but it looked warm, and he could smell the scent of something cooking.

He knew that he could've gone to Liam, but the thing that stopped him was the knowledge that Liam would give up his naval dreams in a heartbeat if it meant taking care of his younger brother. Killian couldn't bear the thought of Liam growing to resent him the way his father had. That left only one option.

With a sigh, Killian hefted his worn bag over his shoulder more securely and knocked on the door.

It took a full two minutes for someone to open it. When the door did slam open, it was to reveal a very grumpy Helena holding a screaming infant.

"What the hell do you want?" She snapped.

"Is Uncle Connor there?" Killian asked nervously.

"No. He's passed out in a corner, drunk as usual," Helena said venomously.

"Oh."

She glared at him for a moment, before speaking again. "Well, what do you want? I'm not standing out here all day." She glanced at the still screaming infant. "Oh, shut up."

"I need a place to stay," Killian blurted.

Helena snorted. "If you can't tell, my hands are already full. Do you have a job?"

Killian stared at his feet. One of his shoes had a hole in it now. "No."

His aunt raised her eyebrows. "No? Then what use are you to me?"

She slammed the door before he could even reply.

Killian blinked back tears and sat on the snowy ground. What now? He could try again the next day once Connor was awake. Maybe his uncle would want to take him in. Until then, he really just had to pass the time.

With a sigh, he pulled his violin out of his bag. He hadn't played it since his mother's death, but now he had a strange urge to play it again. He had hauled it all over the world at this point, so he might as well use it. It was something familiar, and it reminded him of happier times before everything went wrong. More importantly, it was an emotional instrument, and he was tired of crying. Maybe the violin could do that for him.

He tuned the instrument quickly and then began to play. The music danced through the air like a memory. He thought of his family, back when he'd really had one, and then he painted the picture with notes. He was unaware of several spectators who began to stop and listen on their way home after a long day's work.

It was only when he finished that he became aware of the coins that had been thrown his way and the group of people milling around. He stared at them and the coins, perplexed.

"Another!" Someone requested.

Killian looked at them blankly for a moment, before he started a lively fiddling tune. When he finished that one, he became aware of Helena hovering at his shoulder and staring at the coins at his feet.

"Come to think of it, I could use another hand around the house. God knows that Lyanna is the fussiest baby that was ever born," she told him sharply, grabbing him by the elbow and steering him towards the door. She stayed to gather his coins before giving him a final shove into the living area.

It was smaller than his old house and smelled of babies, but at least it was warm. Just as Helena had said, Connor was passed out on the table. Lyanna was still screaming, but now from her cradle.

"You shut her up, and I'll get you something to eat," Helena ordered irritably, shoving the baby into his unsuspecting arms.

Killian recoiled as she started to squirm.

"Shh," he murmured, bouncing her up and down lightly. She only screamed more loudly.

"Am I doing something wrong?" He asked Helena nervously.

She snorted. "I imagine from the look of you that you're always doing something wrong. But, in this case, no, she's just the most irritable creature you ever laid eyes on."

Killian continued to hush her and rock her. Eventually, he shifted her and began to pat her on the back gently. At least he had a better grip of her that way.

She let out a horrible noise and simultaneously the back of his shirt felt wet.

"Ugh," Killian exclaimed, shifting Lyanna again. She now had spit around her lips as well as tears on her face. In short, she was absolutely disgusting. However, she seemed much calmer now that she'd destroyed his only shirt.

"Little wanton," he muttered, but he felt his heart soften slightly when her eyes started to shut. "Of course, you pretend to be innocent _now_."

He gently placed her in her crib and assessed the damage on his shirt. It was absolutely disgusting.

"Yea, babies apparently tend to do that. Wish someone had told _me_," Helena complained, dropping stew and bread on the table none too gently.

Killian ate gratefully and then washed his shirt. He slept on the floor next to the crib with orders to take care of Lyanna if she woke during the night. Aunt Helena failed to inform him of the likelihood of that (since she was only approximately half a year old). As a result, he only half-slept that night, and the sleep he did get was without a shirt and subsequently full of shivering. At around four in the morning, he wondered if the reason that Lyanna woke so frequently was because she was hungry. Regardless, Helena showed no sign of getting up to feed her.

Connor was the first to wake, and he looked at Killian with confusion.

"What are you doing here?" He growled.

"Aunt Helena said that I could live with you," Killian explained nervously.

His uncle groaned. "Helena!"

She appeared frazzled and as grumpy as the night before. "What?"

"Why is this boy in my house and weaving some idiotic tale about you telling him he could live here?" He said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Because he plays the violin and coins roll into his lap," she said matter-of-factly. "If he doesn't make enough, we can throw him out."

Lyanna started screaming and Connor scowled. "Someone shut up that baby, for the love of God. And make me some tea."

"Killian, deal with the child," Helena ordered loudly over the screaming.

With a sigh, he turned back to his cousin and began rocking her again as Uncle Connor continued to complain about the horrible noise and his headache.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"So... that's Lyanna."<p>

Killian looked at her with a distant smile. "Yes. That was Lyanna."

And Emma was honestly surprised because, for just a moment, she saw an expression that she'd rarely seen on Killian's face, except occasionally when he looked at Emma herself: one of absolute adoration.

* * *

><p>Alright, I just wanted to quickly apologize if this chapter is a bit disjunct or full of mistakes. I'm a little bit sick right now and I'm finding it a little tough to concentrate. As a result, I may not end up posting one tomorrow. I just wanted to apologize in advance. Thanks to everyone who is still reading this! :)<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

To begin, I just wanted to apologize for the delay. With midterms, illness, and various busy things, I haven't had as much time to write. I also had an unusually difficult time writing this chapter! Anyway, enough excuses... here it is! As always, thank you everyone who is continuing to read this. :)

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>The following years living with his aunt and uncle were marked by various vivid memories: aching fingers from playing violin for hours outside in the cold, the sting of his uncle's hand and belt, harsh words from his aunt, but, mostly, the strange feeling that comes from feeling solely responsible for another human being.<p>

Lyanna loved to babble. Aunt Helena would complain about it ceaselessly and yell at Lyanna until her daughter burst into frightened tears. Killian, however, would speak back to her as though her nonsense syllables actually made sense.

"You little _wretch_. How dare you speak to me in that tone! You're a very bad child, Killian," Helena snapped as Killian dodged her swat after mentioning that Lyanna may cry less if she was fed more frequently.

"Babababababa," Lyanna tasted the sound with relish.

"That's right, Lyanna," Killian encouraged with a grin. "Bad!"

"Connor will hear about this and, mark my words, you won't be able to walk for a week," she warned, eyes ablaze.

Killian shrugged. He imagined that his uncle would find a reason to hurt him with or without Helena's unfavourable report. Besides, he imagined that someone needed to take care of Lyanna, since neither of her parents seemed interested in it.

After that particular conversation, he started a new routine. He discovered that if he saved a few coins each day, he could buy some milk for Lyanna to drink. If his uncle was sober enough to notice the slight difference in income, it would often mean a few more bruises, but Killian decided it was worth it when Lyanna did, in fact, cry less.

Lyanna spoke her first and her last word on the same day, when a dripping Killian came inside along with enough rainwater to flood the doorway.

"Killian!" Helena barked, glaring at the puddle rapidly forming at his feet.

"Kill!" Shrieked Lyanna happily, eyes alight.

Both Helena and Killian turned to look at her in shock.

"Kill?" Asked Helena, her face starting to harden into an expression that Killian was beginning to associate with imminent pain.

Connor snorted from his usual corner in the living room. "Kill. Of course my child would say that as her first word."

"She doesn't know what it means!" Helena hissed. "She was trying to say _his _name."

Killian flinched. "At least she's learning to speak. You're a very clever girl, Lyanna," he added.

"Connor!" Helena snapped. "Do something. She should be saying 'mama' or 'papa' or something of the sort. Not 'kill'!"

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Connor asked moodily. "If you weren't such an atrocious mother, perhaps she'd have had a different first word."

Helena turned towards Lyanna with angry tears in her eyes. "I'm her mother. She's supposed to love _me_."

"I think that you might actually need to show her some affection first," suggested Killian pointedly, crossing his arms in an attempt to look more powerful than he felt.

"I think that perhaps she just needs a good spanking," snapped Helena, moving threateningly towards where Lyanna was sitting on the floor.

"No!" Shouted Killian, running to stop her. "She doesn't know any better! She's too young!"

At this, Connor seemed to come to life, jumping to his feet angrily. He shot Killian an extremely dirty look, but what scared him the most was the fact that it wasn't clouded by alcohol or some sort of a mental episode. No, Connor was definitely there, and he saw something in Killian that he didn't like.

"Actually, Helena, the boy is absolutely right," he said softly. "Why hurt the young one when the elder is so clearly to blame?"

Killian wasn't able to play violin for a month after that.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"You can't just do that," Emma snapped.<p>

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?"

Emma shook her head angrily. "What did he do?"

"Let us just leave it at the damage was sufficient enough to scare Lyanna into a permanent vow of silence," her companion replied expressionlessly.

At that, Emma was too angry to reply for a moment.

"I can certainly move to a less traumatic part of the narrative, or cease recounting it altogether if you-"

"And this was all because of what happened to him when he was a child?" She interrupted.

Killian sighed. "I've assumed so. After all, I was often told that I resembled my mother to a degree, and there was no one that my uncle hated - or loved - more than her."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"Your blasted mother broke his last thread of sanity with her death, you know," Helena told him darkly a few weeks later.<p>

"Did she?" Asked Killian dully from his usual 'bed' on the floor of the living room. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe that murder is the choice of the victim."

Helena scowled. "He never stopped talking about her and her beautiful voice, or how much she'd done for him-"

"I thought he blamed her for everything," Killian interrupted in surprise.

His aunt snorted. "He did blame her, but only because he needed someone to blame. I swear, if he could've married _her_, he would've."

Killian rolled his eyes. It had taken very little time for him to uncover the full extent of his aunt's jealousy towards his mother. It was just his luck to look like the one person both his aunt and uncle loathed beyond anyone else. Although, Killian suspected that Helena was beginning to like him to at least a degree if only as a scapegoat. When he'd first moved in, he'd noticed the faint bruises mottling her skin. Now, she had discovered that she could easily redirect her husband's anger to her nephew. Even if she had no affection for him, Killian suspected that she was grateful for his existence, and perhaps that was the closest thing to love that Helena could manage.

It was one thing to begin to understand the feelings Helena had towards him, but Killian couldn't for the life of him understand what there was to dislike about Lyanna. She was napping as they spoke, and Killian thought she resembled a little cherubim with her round cheeks and white-blonde hair. Her eyes were the same blue as his own, but they still retained an openness that he knew his had lost long ago. It scared him, sometimes, to see how trusting she was; she still reached out to her mother and father when they couldn't spare her a glance and were as likely to strike out at her as to look at her.

"What happened to your parents, Helena?" The question popped into his head and out of his mouth before he could even think of reining it back in.

For once, she didn't scowl. Instead, she sat down at the table with a sad, distant look on her face.

"I don't know who my father was. I only knew my mother, and she sold me into prostitution when I was barely older than you."

Killian looked at her in surprise. "Honestly?"

His aunt turned to face him with a thoughtful expression. "Lyanna doesn't have it as badly as you like to think. Just remember that."

"I thought your parents were dead," Killian blurted.

Helena sighed, although there was something steely behind her gaze. "I wish they were, Killian. I really do. If I saw them dying on the side of the road and I had the chance to save them, I wouldn't do it. I would spit on them and then maybe stand and watch as they died."

Killian nodded thoughtfully. He didn't think he'd do that for his father, even though he'd left him. Maybe he would hate himself for his moment of weakness, but he would save him.

"Anyway, that's enough chatter. What do you think Connor will want for dinner? Usually I'd cook us meat tonight, but of course we can't afford it now that you're busy lying around," she said brusquely, as though him being injured was his fault.

When he was able to play again, it was a great relief. He wrote a song for Helena as soon as he was better, although he didn't tell her it was for her. He knew she'd hate it immediately if she knew. As it was, he caught her tapping her foot and swaying more than once as he played it.

After that, Killian also secretly tried to coach Lyanna to say "mama". Of course, Lyanna had decided not to speak, so he eventually had to give up on an audible form of the word. However, he was still determined to teach her how to communicate. Now, he was actually grateful for the hours of his earlier childhood spent hiding from soldiers. He still remembered most of the sign language he and the family he had created, and suddenly it seemed like the perfect solution.

"This is the sign for 'baby'," he murmured, making a rocking motion with his arms.

Lyanna mimicked it with her clumsy, chubby toddler arms and Killian grinned.

"And this is the sign for 'mama'." He made the motion. Lyanna looked confused at the word.

"You know, Mama," he nodded his head toward Helena, who was busy aggressively chopping vegetables.

Lyanna copied it finally, looking slightly less confused. Killian couldn't help suspecting that the word was fairly meaningless to her, though. Yes, Lyanna understood that it applied to Helena, but he didn't think she understood the concept of motherhood. When Killian had made up the sign, it had been with memories of love, music, and nurturing. It had been with thoughts of warm hugs, faded aprons, and even Christine's favourite black boots that she'd worn for as long as Killian could remember. To Lyanna, the word "mother" had none of those connotations, and how could it? Still, he liked to dream that one day that would change.

When Lyanna had finally mastered the sign, Killian called Helena over.

"What?" She said wearily.

"Look!" Killian nodded to Lyanna. "Can you show me the sign for 'mama'?"

Lyanna smiled a huge, toothy smile with her few, sparse, newly-grown teeth and made the gesture. Helena looked confused.

"What the bloody hell is that?" She said harshly, crossing her arms with a scowl.

"She's calling you 'mama' with hand gestures," Killian explained proudly.

Helena looked taken aback. "Oh." Then she did something very rare; she smiled her pained smile. Then she patted Lyanna awkwardly on the head and moved back to her chores. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Just to clarify, I think that I had trouble understanding that not everyone was meant to be a mother, simply because my own mother was so exceptional. I wasn't quite as idiotic as I sound, but rather quite naive," Killian interrupted himself to explain.<p>

"So she never loved Lyanna?" Asked Emma, feeling strangely disappointed. It wasn't as though she knew that little girl, for goodness sake. However, at the same time, she could understand always yearning for the love of a parent, even if she'd never had one to reject her when she was a child. Still, wouldn't it have been worse to have a parent and be that much closer to love, only to be rejected?

At her question, Killian's expression twisted from one of derision to thoughtfulness. "Oh, I suspect that she always loved Lyanna in her own strange way. However, whether or not she ever became a good mother... that is a question that is somewhat harder to answer."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Several more years passed, and Lyanna grew some more. Killian was the one who taught her to walk, to begin to read, and enough signs to communicate fairly effectively. He did his best to keep her from the wrath of her father, although he couldn't always. Nevertheless, when he came home to a little girl covered in bruises or cuts, he was always the one to kiss them better.<p>

At night, he sometimes played her to sleep with his violin. When he didn't, he would sing her soft lullabies or tell wild, whispered stories of adventure or real stories of his old family.

"Mama would have loved you," he promised her. "She only had sons, you understand, and I imagine that she'd've loved having a little girl around, if only because it would be different. She wouldn't make you dress up in those awful dresses and ribbons or anything, but she could teach you how to fight with a knife in a dress and a corset. I don't really understand how that was even possible, but if anyone could teach you, it would be her."

Lyanna looked excited at the prospect. "Will you teach me?" She mouthed as she signed the words in her small hands.

"Maybe when you're older, but I don't know if you really need to learn while you have me. I can just stab anyone who bothers you, hmm?" He offered with a smirk.

Lyanna considered the prospect as seriously as a little girl could and then nodded.

On Lyanna's fifth birthday, Killian took her to the marketplace. He technically didn't have the permission of his aunt and uncle, but Connor was drunk and Helena was still lying in bed, so Killian figured that it was fine.

He hoisted her up on his shoulders so that she wouldn't get pushed around in the crowd of people and maneuvered the pair of them to one of the busiest parts of the market. Once there among the stalls with numerous and varied goods, he put her down and played his violin long enough to earn enough money to buy something.

"What do you want for your birthday, Lyanna?" Killian questioned with a grin.

Lyanna looked at him in shock, as though she'd misheard him.

"I'm buying you a present," he clarified.

He imagined that the market must have been overwhelming for the little girl with all of its sights and smells. Even now that he was almost thirteen, he was still enchanted by the marketplace and its exotic wares.

Lyanna grabbed his hand and started to pull him around to various stalls with her childlike exuberance. Killian knew the moment she had found what she wanted without her even having to point or tell him, simply because her eyes widened and her whole face fell slack with wonder. He followed her gaze to a stall of toys, where a small fabric doll sat daintily in a patchwork dress and apron.

"That one?" He inquired, pointing to the doll.

Lyanna nodded eagerly, gripping his hand more tightly. She only let go once he'd bought the doll and placed it into her arms. She hugged it to her tightly and lovingly, crushing the soft doll against her chest and her cheek.

"I love her," she mouthed with a wide smile.

"Good," Killian replied.

They bought a pastry to split on the way home, and Lyanna held tightly to her doll the entire time, carefully wiping sticky fingers on her own dress rather than her doll. Killian had brought her small things before, but he knew that she'd never had a real toy before. The sight of her with her doll brought him a great feeling of satisfaction, regardless of what he could guess would come later that evening.

Of course, he was correct. He gently ushered Lyanna into the corner when they arrived home and instructed her to hide the doll. Connor had been known to destroy things when he was angry, and how would he be able to resist the new doll that clearly meant so much to his daughter?

Killian dropped the few coins left over from the day onto the table without remorse as his aunt and uncle watched, stoney faced.

"That's it?" Connor asked, his voice the usual quiet mutter it was when he was seconds away from boiling point.

"Yes, sir," Killian shrugged.

"Where is the rest?" Helena demanded icily. "Are you stealing it from us so that you can run away? Because, trust me, we will know, we will find you, and you will regret it."

"It was Lyanna's birthday," he explained levelly, staring down his aunt. She had the decency to look slightly ashamed, her eyes flickering momentarily to her daughter who was sitting tensely across the room.

"People are born every day. It's hardly worth celebrating; it's just another year of misery," Connor mused. "And do you know what makes it more miserable? Not having enough money to live on." He accentuated each word of the last sentence with a slap to Killian's face.

"Alright," Killian said. "I'll get more tomorrow."

"You'd better," Helena snapped, before disappearing into her bedroom.

In the end, it was a funny twist of fate that Killian was beaten so badly that night. If he hadn't bought Lyanna a birthday present or taken her out, he never would have been beaten. However, he'd decided weeks in advance that it would be worth it to make her happy. It was his love for her that made the pain worthwhile, and it was the pain that caused him to lie awake with his jaw clenched into the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning.

Oddly enough, it was also love for Lyanna that made his insomnia so important that night. If he hadn't been awake, Helena wouldn't have survived the night.

Her door creaked open so softly that Killian almost didn't hear it. He did, though, and he turned his head gently to watch as his aunt's shadowy silhouette moved briskly to the front door and threw it open to run outside into a pool of moonlight.

Killian deeply considered just ignoring whatever weird thing his aunt may be doing, but something about the whole situation made him uneasy. Helena slept more than anyone he'd ever met. He imagined that she would spend the whole day in bed if she could, so why was she rushing out in her nightdress in the middle of the night?

With a groan, Killian painfully pulled himself to his feet and followed after her. He got outside just in time to see his Aunt disappear around the corner at a dead sprint. Even more confused, Killian sprinted after her. As he followed her, it became more and more clear to him that she was heading towards the ocean, and not even the busy parts where the ships docked.

It was only when she reached a secluded section of harbour that she stopped running, hesitating only for a moment before beginning to wade into the water. He reached the edge of the water just as she reached about neck level, but she didn't stop.

"What the hell are you doing?" Asked Killian, his heart pounding.

His aunt didn't even look at him. She just continued wading in until the water was over her head.

Swearing under his breath, Killian ran into the water after her. He was fairly certain that she wasn't going in for a midnight swim, but he, at least, had learned how to move through the water without drowning. It took a terrifying amount of time for him to find his aunt, and, when he did, she struggled against him at first. Finally, though, she began to weaken and Killian was able to pull her back to shore where she collapsed coughing. The second she had expelled all water from her lungs, she began to sob.

"You little bastard," she screamed. She hit him angrily, but then seemed to decide it wasn't worth it and buried her face in her hands to continue to cry.

Killian just stared at her for a moment. She looked almost childlike with her damp hair clinging to her face, for once out of whatever messy bun she had attempted to restrain it in. She looked small and wet and pathetic, and Killian almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Do you mind telling me why you just tried to drown yourself?" He asked, surprising himself with how steady his voice was.

Helena glared daggers at him. "I don't owe you an explanation. In fact, I would say that you owe me-"

"For saving your life?" Killian interrupted angrily.

"In case it wasn't clear to you, I didn't want you to!" She snarled, collapsing into sobs once again.

"You may not owe me an explanation for my sake, but you certainly do for Lyanna's," Killian began to reason, although his temper was already dangerously compromised by pain and exhaustion.

"Lyanna is the reason that I was doing it!" Helena shrieked, her eyes popping in her anger. "Don't you understand? There's no point to my existence. I'm a terrible mother and I'm miserable; it's not as though she needs me when she has _you_! I can't even protect the bloody stupid child or remember her damned birthday!"

Killian stared at her, feeling slightly sick. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? She needs her mother, especially with Uncle Connor around-"

"Apparently I'm incapable of providing for her needs, and, in any case, she has _you_!" Hissed Helena, jabbing a finger violently into her nephew's chest.

"I didn't give birth to her. _You_ did, and she's your responsibility. She didn't ask to be conceived. One day, you're going to have to realize that you're an adult and you need to be her mother," Killian shouted. "Do you have any idea how selfish and irresponsible this is?"

"There were no more options," Helena sobbed. "And it was my choice. How dare you take that away from me!"

"She would love you if you gave her even the slightest hint that you were willing to try to be her mother. It's time for you to grow up!"

"I've been grown up since I was a child," Helena retorted angrily. "Perhaps that's why I'm so incapable of nurturing anyone. Has that ever occurred to you?"

"The only thing that has occurred to me is that there is a little girl who relies on you and dreams of nothing but your approval and love," Killian said.

By that point, Helena grew too upset to even speak. Killian felt some of his anger melt away at the sight, and awkwardly patted her back in an attempt at comfort. To his surprise, she leaned into his shoulder and continued to sob, holding onto her nephew for dear life.

When some of her sobs had subsided into hiccups, Killian helped her to her feet.

"Shall we go home?" He asked.

Helena nodded, wiping her face clean of emotion once again, and joined her limping nephew in his walk back to the small house hidden among the shadows of the city.


	17. Chapter 17

Let me just start this with a brief apology... sorry that this took so long! I had a busy midterm week and a few extra things that threw me for a loop. Anyway, I'll try to update more frequently now.

I hope everyone enjoyed the start of the second half of the season as much as I did! :)

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>The war started without any warning.<p>

Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true; to Killian, it had always felt as though his world was standing on a knife point. It would take very little to upset the balance once again, but the constant weight of some unnamed threat made it feel as though the threat would never occur and his world would be stuck in some strange, uncomfortable stasis forever.

Oddly enough, the threat was not one that Killian would have expected. From the various snatches of discussion he caught, it seemed likely that there would be a civil war, a revolutionary war, or a war with their Northern neighbours. In the end, the threat came from the Eastern king, who had grown greedy and wanted to take his chance at conquering the kingdom to the west.

Adults were recruited first, but soon the whispers started; the king wanted children.

"Nonsense," Helena muttered derisively as a neighbour stopped by to gossip.

"It's the truth, on my life. Children are small enough to spy or sneak into enemy camps on sabotage missions. They're also expendable because we can always have more of them - God knows there's enough of them on the streets - and, perhaps if the soldiers are soft-hearted, it will reduce the casualties," added the old woman at the door gravely. She showed up frequently for the sole purpose of gossiping; Helena often complained that they had no need of a town crier with her around.

Helena shrugged. "Well, I suppose that would be rather clever of the king, then, if it were actually true." She said the last part with her usual disdain.

The woman glanced around nervously, as though waiting for someone to jump out and arrest her. "If I were you, I might hide any children old enough to be of use," she nodded pointedly at Killian, who was currently scrubbing the floor a few meters away but still pretending not to listen.

His aunt snorted. "Over a foolish rumour?"

Connor spoke up then from his usual chair. "Would we be paid for any child we provide?"

"I believe so," the woman replied. "It's work, no matter who does it."

"Then I don't see any problem," Connor grunted.

And that was the end of any discussion around any preventative measures. While Killian occasionally caught Helena looking at him thoughtfully, he saw no other sign that the issue was on anyone's mind.

When he was actually ordered to join the king's army, Killian didn't mind very much. In fact, part of him was quite happy because he imagined that he'd probably be beaten less in the army than he would be at home. He wouldn't have to deal with his mad uncle or his confusing aunt. However, his one concern was Lyanna; the thought of leaving twisted his gut unpleasantly with guilt, but, in the end, what choice did he have?

"I'll write you as often as I can. You have to swear to continue practicing your letters," Killian told her sternly that night.

She'd been crying ever since the soldiers came and clung to her cousin like a burr. Currently, she had her arms wrapped around his middle and her head buried in his stomach so that all he could see was a mass of blonde hair. Helena was knitting quietly by the fire, and Connor... well, he was wherever he went at this time of night, perhaps to run his theatre or to nurse a bottle.

Lyanna shook her head. "Promise to come back?" She mouthed, eyes teary.

"Of course. I'll always come back for you," Killian promised, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

When he left the next morning after carefully extracting himself from a sleeping Lyanna, Helena was the only one awake. She was staring moodily into a cup of tea and looked so tired that Killian wondered if she'd slept at all.

"Swear that you'll take care of Lyanna?" Killian requested quietly.

Helena shook her head, her face tight as though she were eating something sour. "You have no right to say that to me. I'm her mother, not you."

Killian just raised an eyebrow.

"I'll ensure that she makes it through your absence in one piece," Helena conceded finally, still staring into her cracked teacup.

Killian knew that this was the best promise that she would give him, and so he only nodded. As he left, he realized that Helena actually seemed upset to see him go. He suspected that it was only because she would receive the brunt of her husband's anger for the time that he was away. Then again, she'd become even more confusing since her suicide attempt, so it was hard to tell. Killian was secretly terrified that Helena herself would be the one to not make it through his absence in one piece, but surely, if her suicide attempt had been in Lyanna's best interests according to whatever twisted logic she followed, that meant that she would stay alive. There was perhaps nothing that Killian feared as much as Lyanna being alone with Connor.

The war lasted just under a year, with the result being a reluctant stalemate between the two sides.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Seriously? Killian, you can't just skip all of the details," Emma said in exasperation.<p>

Her companion shrugged. "Certainly, I can. There's not much to say about the war. I did what I was ordered, made friends, lost them to our foe, got several minor injuries, but survived, obviously. The rest is just unpleasant details of strategy and wasted lives ended prematurely." He closed his eyes at that, as if hoping that by looking like he was napping he could get out of further explanations.

Emma frowned. "All of your friends died?"

"All but three," Killian acknowledged with a crooked smile, eyes still closed.

"And? Who were they?"

"One I never saw again, but learned that he passed short years later due to illness."

"And the other two?" Emma prompted.

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Screams cut through the air as sharply as the sword Killian attempted to swing. The battle could have lasted for minutes, hours, or days, and Killian wouldn't have known; it seemed that his mind had shut out everything unrelated to the small area around him. In the back of his mind, he processed the screams, the cries, the clashing of metal, the tangy scent of blood, and the sweat running down his face, but most of his energy was focused on keeping anything sharp from piercing his skin. He'd never anticipated just how heavy a sword was, but he was almost numb to it now that he'd survived multiple battles, even if some of them had been only by the skin of his teeth. His body had fallen into a thoughtless rhythm of deflecting and jabbing.<p>

The hardest part of anything, though, was getting his sword out again if he managed to stick it into someone.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Killian smirked at Emma's alarmed expression. "You asked for details, Swan."<p>

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>In this particular battle, that issue left him suddenly and sadly sword-less.<p>

Killian swore under his breath as a man rushed at him. Of all times for his weapon to get _stuck!_

At the last moment, his enemy's sword was deflected by another, and an extra hand helped him to pull out his trapped sword.

"Thank you," Killian said sincerely, glancing at the stranger. He had little time for anything else before his concentration was pulled away once more by another attacker.

After the battle ended, Killian went in search of the stranger. After wandering past several campfires and tents, he finally found him in a tent set up for quick medical work, although little could truly be done for most injuries. Fortunately, this stranger only needed a few stitches to his arm.

Killian observed him for a moment. The boy was a few years older than he was, with light brown messy hair and brown eyes. He had a friendly face with smile lines etched into it, even if it was currently contorted with discomfort, and was compactly but sturdily built. Eventually, the boy seemed to sense Killian's eyes on him and glanced over. After a moment, recognition passed over his face.

"I came to thank you-" Killian began once he realized that the boy had seen him.

The boy smiled faintly. "That's not necessary. Anyone would have done the same if given the opportunity."

Killian nodded but privately disagreed. His mother would have, and he imagined that Liam would have as well. Perhaps Sari and Gavin would have. No one else came to mind.

"I'm Owen Mallory," the boy introduced himself.

"Killian Jones," he replied, offering his hand.

The boy shook it firmly. "I'd say we won this one," he said cheerfully.

"Did we?" Killian remarked with disinterest.

"Well, we aren't dead, are we?" Owen pointed out.

"That doesn't prove anything," Killian said with a shrug.

"It proves everything," Owen retorted.

Killian raised an eyebrow but didn't reply. Finally, he thanked the boy again and left.

Two nights later, he was sitting by the fire with paper and pencil when he met Owen again.

"What's that?"

Killian turned in surprise to see Owen hovering over his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

Owen squinted at the paper in confusion. "Those aren't letters, are they?"

"I'm composing," Killian said shortly, turning back to his page.

"Composing?" Echoed Owen in confusion.

Killian sighed. "Writing music."

"But you don't have an instrument," Owen commented, sitting next to Killian without invitation.

"I don't need one. I hear it in my head," Killian explained briskly, hoping to be left alone again.

"That's amazing," Owen said in awe, looking at the paper more closely as though physical contact would allow him to hear it.

Killian looked up to the stars in despair, knowing that the likelihood of composing further that night was decreasing by the minute.

"Does it have a title?" Asked Owen curiously.

"There," Killian muttered, pointing at the neatly written words.

Owen looked at the letters in confusion.

"You're illiterate," Killian observed.

Pink crept into Owen's cheeks. "Well, I'm from a farm, you see, and neither of my parents know how nor saw much point in learning. You don't need letters to grow crops."

Killian couldn't imagine being unable to read. Suddenly, he was immensely grateful that his parents had been so strict about their children educating themselves. Still, perhaps there was something to be said about being an uneducated farm boy if it meant that his parents were still alive.

"What does it sound like?" Owen asked curiously.

Killian hummed quietly under his breath and Owen listened raptly, his mouth slightly open.

"And you just made that up?" He demanded, his eyes wide.

"Yes," Killian said shortly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. "But it's not very difficult."

"If you say so," Owen muttered skeptically.

Killian turned back to continue writing, now with the heat of Owen's gaze on the page, following each scratch of the pencil.

"What does the title say?" Owen interrupted after only a few bars.

"The Last Night."

Owen considered for a minute. "That's a little depressing, isn't it?"

Killian closed his eyes for a moment in irritation. "Perhaps."

His companion lay on his back and stared up at the sky. "How about 'The Last Star'? Stars seem more cheerful."

"I don't want something cheerful," Killian replied with a frown.

"I do," Owen admitted softly, staring at the sky. Although he was older than Killian, the admission made him seem almost childlike. For a moment, Killian could almost picture Lyanna laying there instead, begging him for a lullaby about whatever little girls liked to be sung to about. Sometimes she wanted lullabies about knife fights, sometimes she wanted lullabies about princesses, but she always had that same breakable look that Owen was wearing.

With a slight huff of defeat, Killian turned to another page. "A song about stars?"

"You'll take suggestions?" Owen sat up so quickly that Killian was surprised he didn't become dizzy and fall back down again.

"Yes, yes, fine," Killian muttered.

Owen took a deep breath before reciting solemnly:

"The fountains mingle with the River

And the Rivers with the Ocean,

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle.

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?"

Killian stared.

"I'm quite a fan of verse," Owen admitted. "I like to go to the city to hear recitations."

"Well... um... alright, I can compose something for that," Killian agreed, scratching behind his ear awkwardly.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"So you've done that since you were a kid," Emma observed.<p>

Her present-day Killian right hand moved to its usual spot in embarrassment, but Killian caught it and pretended to brush something off of his shoulder. "Um, aye. It's a childhood habit that I'm afraid no one had the foresight to correct."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Killian taught Owen his tune once he had perfected it, and Owen soon hummed it idly throughout most of the day. After several days of hearing it everywhere, Killian demanded that Owen give him more words, just so that he could get that damned tune out of his head. The two soon fell into a rhythm of writing, and Killian only feared that his friend the poetry book would end up bleeding out on the battlefield and Killian would be without a challenge once again.<p>

He was busy composing one night with Owen by his side when his second surviving friend appeared.

"Killian?!"

Killian turned his head to see a girl around his age with dark skin and expressive dark eyes.

"Ciarra?" He said in amazement, staring at his childhood friend.

"Oh my God!" Ciarra gasped, throwing her arms around him. "I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet," Killian replied with a grin. "And neither are you, it seems."

Ciarra laughed. "No. It's a bit of a long story, I'm afraid."

Killian quickly introduced his friends, and then Ciarra settled down closely beside Killian, so that their shoulders were touching, to tell her tale.

"Mama made me hide under the bed when the soldiers came. After they died, I went to your house, but I saw that there were soldiers there too so I assumed the worst. Then I didn't really know what to do, until I had a sort of horrible idea," Ciarra trailed off looking slightly guilty.

"Yes?" Prompted Owen, leaning forward in interest.

"Well, my mother was married once before to some sort of a drunken jailer from what I understand. I went to the old prison and found him. It was easy enough to convince him that I was his-"

"Easy? You'd have to be twice your age!" Killian exclaimed.

"I believe that mathematics may not be his strong point," Ciarra suggested delicately. "I added on a few years to my age and I think he was too drunk to remember exactly how long it had been since Mama left him. Then, the next morning, he woke up and didn't remember the details too well, so I just sort of ended up staying."

Owen had collapsed laughing, while Killian just sat looking impressed.

"It helped that he was too drunk to even remember the year," Ciarra added in an attempt at modesty.

"Is he kind to you at least?" Killian questioned.

Ciarra shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "He's not all that bad. And you?"

"I'm living with Uncle Connor," Killian admitted.

Ciarra was aghast. "Uncle Connor? Him?!"

Killian sighed and quickly caught her up on the finer details of why he'd been forced into living with their notoriously mad and violent uncle. Ciarra gave him a tight hug afterwards.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "Do you remember how much fun we used to have?"

Killian nodded with a smile. "Yes. We were pretty lucky for a time."

Owen threw his arms around the pair of them. "Well, now we're here together, so I'd say we're all pretty lucky."

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"He sounds like Mary Margaret," Emma commented drily.<p>

Killian chuckled. "He did have quite an optimistic outlook on life, but the similarities end there, I assure you."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>In the end, Owen brought many of the teenagers in camp under his wing. Soon, many of them developed a camaraderie that Killian had never experienced before, except perhaps within his family or briefly with Milah and Liam. The group would exchange stories and fears, or sing Killian's songs by the campfire. At times, Killian could almost forget that a war was occurring and that any of them could die. Of course, most of them did. Faces came and went, but Ciarra and Owen somehow managed to stay by Killian's side.<p>

When the war finished, Killian almost felt some regret. However, the knowledge that his friends would likely survive now that the war was over helped to repress most of it, as did the weight of new losses Killian had to carry.

"Good luck, Owen," Killian said when it came time to say goodbye.

Owen pulled him into a hug. "You too. Farewell for now, my friend."

It was easier to say goodbye to Ciarra.

"Promise you'll come meet Lyanna," Killian said to her as they went their separate ways in the city.

"Of course." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then ran off.

Killian arrived at his uncle's home almost a year older, slightly sadder, and with far more combat skills. However, the house he remembered had barely changed at all. A faint trail of smoke still wafted from the chimney and his aunt and uncle's voices still echoed angrily out the door.

With a sigh, Killian walked in only to be greeted by silence. He only had time to see his aunt's stunned face and his uncle's irritated one before a small form with blonde hair threw herself at him. Killian pulled Lyanna into his arms and stroked her hair as she cried quiet tears of relief.

"Good afternoon," Killian said awkwardly to his silent aunt and uncle.

"Good lord, your voice has changed," Helena muttered. "How long have you been away?!"

"Long enough," Connor interrupted irritably. "The bloody army didn't pay us nearly enough for you. You must have been slacking."

"Yes, sir," Killian replied automatically.

"At least you've learned some manners," Connor added with a snort of disgust, turning back to his ale.

Lyanna pulled him over to their usual corner of blankets and pillows, since neither their aunt nor their uncle had yet bothered to buy them beds. She pulled out her doll and hugged it tightly.

"Ah, Emily kept you safe, I see," Killian murmured, gesturing at the doll.

Lyanna nodded, before grabbing his hand and dragging him to his violin. With a wary glance at his aunt and uncle, Killian picked it up and played a soft waltz for Lyanna, which she danced to with Emily in the corner. Helena watched from across the room with a small smile that quickly turned into a scowl when she noticed Killian watching her.

"Enough noise," barked Connor, shooting a venomous look at his nephew.

However, in spite of everything, Killian managed to keep from receiving a beating that night, and once Helena and Connor went to sleep, Killian finally got to catch up with Lyanna properly.

With a teasing smile, he pulled out the letter he had written her several months before for her birthday. Her face lit up in excitement as he passed it back to her and softly sang the song he had written for her. She buried her head in his lap and fell asleep soon afterwards, but Killian stayed awake for most of the night, too happy to be back with Lyanna to find any rest. She was alive, and that was all that mattered for the moment.

* * *

><p>*This one belongs to Shelley.<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

I apologize (again) for the wait! I'll try to be better this week. :)

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Connor had hit Lyanna.<p>

It took only a few days for Killian to figure it out. The signs were subtle, but they were there nonetheless. He saw it in the way she flinched when Connor entered the room, or the way she stared at the ground and shrunk against the wall if her father's eyes darted in her direction, or the way her hand would fly reflexively to her face when there was a loud noise.

The discovery filled him with a simmering rage that he had rarely felt before.

"You promised to keep her safe," he hissed to Helena one evening when Connor was out and Lyanna was already asleep.

Helena looked at him levelly. "I said I'd keep her in one piece. There's only so much one can do against a madman."

Killian rolled his eyes in disgust and turned away.

After that, for the first time, he started planning his escape from his aunt and uncle. He could do it, he was certain. If he was patient and just put aside a few coins each day for himself after busking, then he could surely get away within the year and support himself and Lyanna. It would be difficult, certainly, but surely difficulty was better than the constant threat of his uncle's fist.

He began to play his violin for longer and longer each day to get as many coins as possible. It was because of his longer hours that he met Milah again.

Halfway through a piece, he glanced up at his audience to see a familiar pair of sharp grey eyes watching him. In fact, she looked familiar in many ways; her dark curls were still long and unkempt, her cheekbones were still sharp, her hands still graceful, her posture still tall and defiant... and yet, there were differences too. For one thing, she had breasts; a teenaged boy noticed such things. For another, when their eyes met, there was a look of notable relief on her face that a younger Milah would never have shown.

Killian put down his bow at the end of the phrase, despite the song being unfinished, and moved over to her.

"Milah? What are you doing here?" He asked in amazement.

"You play the violin," she observed, ignoring his question to stare at the old instrument in his hand. "I wondered why you bothered to drag it around with you when you never played. It's a pity, really; you might have kept us law-abiding citizens."

Killian raised an eyebrow. "And missed all of our fun?"

Tilting her head to the side in consideration, Milah finally shrugged. "Fair enough."

"So, what brings you here?" Killian tried again.

"May I hold it?" Milah asked, reaching out for the instrument.

"No," he replied. "Not until you answer my question."

Milah rolled her eyes and pouted, which was strangely attractive. "I ran away, of course."

She reached for the instrument, but Killian yanked it out of the way. "Why?"

"Because my uncle wants me to marry this horrible old spinster man," Milah complained with a shudder. "Scared of his own shadow, I swear, and twice my age at least."

"And you came here because...?"

"Well, for one thing, it's easy to hide in a city, and, for another..." Milah trailed off, looking strangely uncomfortable.

"Yes?" Killian prompted.

"I hoped that you and your family might still be here and that you might be able to help me hide," Milah confessed. "While living on the streets again doesn't particularly frighten me, I do have some concerns about what may happen to someone of my gender and age."

Killian sighed, rubbing his eye tiredly.

"If it's too much trouble..." Milah trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"No, not at all. I was just trying to think of where you could go," Killian muttered. "Oof!"

Milah had thrown her arms around him in a tight hug. "Thank you."

Killian ended up taking her to his uncle's theatre. While it was often busy, there were some storage rooms where one could hide quite easily. Milah made herself quite comfortable there with little prompting.

The first night that she spent in the theatre had Killian awake most of the night. What would happen if Connor discovered her? Or what if the door was locked the next day and Milah starved?

The next day, Killian got up after only brief snatches of sleep to bring his friend food. Early morning sun was just beginning to inch along the cobblestones of the street when Killian reached the theatre. It smelled strongly of alcohol and vomit, but Killian simply wrinkled his nose and pressed onwards, sliding through the back door as quietly as he could. Several downward flights of stairs later, Killian reached Milah's storage room.

She was where he had left her, curled up in a pile of old costumes like a small animal in its den. In the dim light from his candle, Killian could just barely see her face. It looked much softer as she slept; awake, she always appeared to be bracing herself against the evils of the world. Now, she looked as innocent as Lyanna.

After a moment of observation, Killian dropped some food by her still form and turned to leave.

"You never let me hold the violin," Milah's voice cut in sleepily. "Do you have it with you now?"

Killian jumped slightly and turned to face his friend. She blinked up at him lazily, as though she were still too tired to throw in her usual casual aggression.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Killian whispered.

"Answer the bloody question," she muttered, burying her face further into the clothes until Killian could only see a tangle of curls.

"Why do you want to hold it?" Killian replied, perplexed.

Milah yawned and stretched, looking for all the world like an oversized barn cat.

"Because it's beautiful. I love the shape, and the wood looks so smooth. It's most beautiful when it's played, of course, but can't you just look at it and hear music? I want to see what it is about something so small that can create something so gorgeous. Holding it would be like holding living and breathing art in your hands," Milah said dreamily.

Killian raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "If you say so."

"You think I'm mad," Milah sighed.

"Not necessarily. You could just be drunk," Killian corrected with a smirk.

Milah's face fell into a pout.

"I'll bring you some dinner later, alright?" Killian promised.

He couldn't keep from grinning as he left. He'd forgotten how... different, Milah was.

That night, he came back to find Milah still on the same pile of clothes. The only difference was that now she was sitting cross-legged with a pencil in hand and a pile of crumpled papers on her lap. Her hair obscured most of what had captured her attention, but what he could see of her face revealed an expression of intense concentration.

"What are you doing?" He asked quietly to avoid frightening her.

It turned out that such manners were wasted; Milah didn't even look up.

"Drawing," she said absently.

Killian moved to look over her shoulder.

"That's amazing," he breathed.

Her drawing was of his violin, looking so life-like that Killian almost believed that he would be able to pick it up off of the page and play it.

"It would have been better if you'd let me hold it," Milah muttered.

"I didn't know that you you could draw," Killian commented, sitting beside her and passing her food.

Milah accepted it gratefully after absently wiping blackened fingers on her skirt. "Well, I didn't exactly have anything with which to draw when we were last together."

"You've always done it, then?"

His companion nodded distantly. "Oh, yes. I've wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember. I feel almost as though I see things differently. Maybe it's only because I'm looking, but I swear that I see hundreds of colours and shadows where others would only see dozens. And where other people just see one scene, I see a million possible scenes based on the way the light could touch it. Light is so beautiful, isn't it? It changes absolutely everything. It can make the most dreary thing gorgeous, or the opposite, I suppose. I just see all of these amazing images and I just want to capture them forever so that people can see them the way I do."

Milah paused to glance up at Killian with some trepidation. Perhaps it was fear of judgment, or perhaps simply fear that came from disclosing something so personal. However, where the words might have sounded crazy coming from anyone else's mouth, they sounded natural coming from Milah's. Her grey eyes lit with a subtle passion that reminded Killian of the simmering energy of a thunderstorm.

"I think I understand," Killian finally replied. "It's a bit like music, only music lets you capture a moment only briefly before letting it go again. Still, the magnification of whatever the moment holds is the same."

Nodding appreciatively, Milah turned back to her sketch. "Do you want to be a musician, then?"

"No," Killian admitted. "Well... I'm unsure. You see, my mother did that, and she was brilliant. I would hate to just copy her and be some sort of a pale imitation. No, I don't think I'd want to perform for a living. It's far too personal. I do love composing, though. I wouldn't mind being a composer."

"Well, they're more or less the same," Milah argued.

"No, they're not. When you compose you leave the subject on the paper. When you perform, you have to live it. My mother was wonderful at living a million different lives as honestly as she lived her own, and that can be wonderful at times, but doing it all of the time? That would be wretched. No, I'd rather leave whatever I'm writing on a page, where I can just put it away and forget about it."

"I suppose," Milah acknowledged thoughtfully. "I've never really thought of that before."

The two teenagers descended into companionable silence, with only the soft sound of charcoal on paper in the background.

"Would you write me a song?" Asked Milah suddenly.

Killian looked at her in surprise. "About what?"

"Me, of course," Milah retorted. "We can do an artistic exchange."

"Sounds fascinating," Killian drawled sarcastically.

"I mean it! Our art is a tiny peek into our minds, and I'm curious to see how you see me. Besides, I need something to work on while I sit down here." She looked up from her paper pleadingly.

Killian considered her for a moment in amusement. "Alright, fine."

For the next two weeks, when Killian brought Milah meals, both would sit quietly and work on their own art. Milah insisted that neither of them see the other's work until it was finished, which meant that they sat back-to-back. The time would fly by, though, simply because their work would often be forgotten in favour of conversation. Images of their lives over the past years sprang up in the darkened storage room, and some of them even within Milah's pages of work.

"Would I be able to meet Lyanna?" Milah requested one evening after another of Killian's anecdotes about his cousin. "She sounds like a darling."

Killian considered the matter carefully - Lyanna rarely left the house - but finally agreed.

The next morning, Killian carried his cousin on his back to Milah's hiding spot. The closer they got to the storage room, the tighter Lyanna's grip grew around his neck.

"Oi, Lyanna! I can't breathe," protested Killian.

"I'm not so frightening, I promise," called Milah softly from down the hall.

Lyanna's grip tightened further, and Killian gave up all hope of breathing. When he finally placed his cousin on the ground, it was with great relief.

Killian had warned Milah that the little girl didn't speak, but nothing could have fully prepared her for Lyanna's timidity. Lyanna had agreed excitedly to meet Killian's friend, but, upon seeing her, she promptly hid herself behind Killian's legs. Milah shot Killian a look of horror, clearly thinking she'd done something wrong.

"Good evening," Milah said awkwardly.

When she received no response, she turned back to her sketching. Several minutes passed, in which Lyanna grew increasingly curious. Eventually, she prodded Killian forward so that she could see what Milah was doing, using her cousin like a human shield. Milah only moved once, when Lyanna accidentally touched a spot on Killian's back that was sore from his uncle's latest beating and he let out a quiet cry, but after a small frown of understanding, Milah moved back to her work.

Finally, with a gentle nudge, Killian moved his cousin in front of him.

"I'm not allowed to look," he explained.

Lyanna inched forward further to stare at the page, then at Killian, as though comparing the two images. Her terror began to melt away into wonder.

"Would you like to try?" Milah offered.

Lyanna hesitated and glanced at Killian, who nodded encouragingly.

By the end of an hour, Lyanna was not only used to Milah, she was also fearlessly curled up by her side, sketching with a small smile on her face. Killian resolved at that second to make time to draw with Lyanna instead of just reading to her or helping her with her writing.

"We should go now," Killian said eventually.

Lyanna held up her hand pleadingly.

"Five more minutes?" Killian guessed. "Sorry, love, but I think that if we wait too much longer your mother will miss us."

Lyanna hung her head but started to stand.

"Wait, Killian, I wanted to talk to you," Milah said quickly, moving away from the little girl after squeezing her shoulder lightly.

She pulled him aside and Killian raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I don't want to embarrass you by bringing this up, but I just needed to ask you. Your uncle hurts you a lot, doesn't he?"

Killian immediately felt his face flush in humiliation and looked away.

"I don't need you to bare your soul to me or anything, but have you ever considered leaving? That poor little girl is terrified of her own shadow. I think that's a good reason to leave, if not for yourself."

"I have considered leaving," Killian replied, but trailed off. Unfortunately, much of the money he'd been saving had instead gone towards feeding Milah. That wasn't knowledge that he wanted to burden her with.

"And?" Milah prompted.

"And I'm still considering it," Killian told her from between a tightly clenched jaw.

Milah looked up at her friend sorrowfully. "I really think you should. No one deserves to be kicked around the way you two seem to be. Besides, maybe, if you did leave... we could leave together. We could go on adventures and take care of Lyanna and make beautiful art... it could be so wonderful!"

"It could," agreed Killian hesitantly. Of course, it was easy to dream about running off with his friend and his cousin, perhaps grabbing Ciarra and Liam on the way. It was tempting to imagine them all living together in a small house with a little garden, all working and providing an actual loving environment for Lyanna to grow up in. But, then again, neither of Lyanna's parents would take their departure well. The loss of income from Killian's departure combined with him stealing their daughter, even if their outrage would be from possessiveness rather than love, could be disastrous. Besides, they would need money, and they would need jobs. They might also need to grow up a little bit. It was easy to dream about running, but the logistics of it were less easy to figure out. Besides, Helena was growing increasingly possessive of Lyanna; even getting her outside for an hour had been difficult.

Milah sighed and turned back to Lyanna.

"I have a present for you," Milah told her. "I did it quite quickly, but I hope you like it."

Hesitantly, Lyanna took the page the young woman was offering and stared at it. After a moment, her mouth stretched into a shy grin. Killian quietly moved over to glance at it too: it was the perfect likeness of Lyanna.

His cousin gave Milah a quick hug before retreating to Killian. Milah smiled wistfully as she watched them leave.

That night, Lyanna gave Killian a present as well. He had just closed his eyes to sleep when a small hand poked him hesitantly in the arm. He opened his eyes just in time to have a page fall on his face.

"Is this your drawing?" He asked sleepily, moving to light a candle.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"Do you still have it? I didn't see it," Emma broke in.<p>

"It's another of those items that I prefer to have with me," Killian explained, gently reaching into his pocket and extracting a small... bottle.

Emma looked at him disbelievingly.

"Pirate, love. I'd rather not have it get wet."

As he spoke, Killian gently pulled a yellowed, slightly tattered page from the bottle. It was folded neatly, and Killian handled it with the utmost care as he unfolded it to reveal the charcoal sketch.

Emma took his cue and took it from him with a very light touch. She couldn't suppress a laugh when she saw it, though. It was clearly Lyanna's attempt at a self-portrait with her cousin. For some reason, it wasn't what she'd expected. In fact, it looked like any young child's attempt at drawing. It was a strange thing to realize that a small, abused girl who lived hundreds of years ago wasn't so different from children now.

"She really captured you perfectly," Emma commented with a grin. A disproportionate stick figure with messy hair and a clean-shaven face grinned back at her lopsidedly.

"She certainly recognized 'devilishly handsome' when she saw it," Killian agreed.

"Yes. There's nothing more 'devilishly handsome' than a potato-shaped head," Emma teased.

Killian's smile slipped away.

"Oh, come on, I was joking," Emma complained.

"Oh, no, Swan. I was just thinking," Killian replied, putting his smile back on reflexively.

Emma studied him. "Alright. What next?"

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"I've finished a masterpiece," Milah announced.<p>

Killian looked up in surprise. They had fallen into a pleasant and familiar routine of working together, and the thought of it ending was strangely disappointing.

"Perhaps I should be the judge of whether it's truly a masterpiece," Killian suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, you shan't get to judge until you finish yours," Milah declared in a sing-song voice.

"Oh, I finished weeks ago," Killian said with a shrug, pulling out some papers from the bottom of his stack.

Milah chuckled at that.

"What?" Killian asked, thrown off guard.

"So did I!" Milah admitted.

A look of understanding passed between them, before Milah shoved a paper towards him. "Shall we trade?'

The sketch left Killian speechless. Of course, he had known that Milah was an extremely competent artist, so he'd known that it would be a high quality piece of art. Nevertheless, it still managed to surprise him. In the sketch, Killian stood playing the violin with a layered, almost dreamlike background of several scenes. He recognized stories that he'd recounted in their shapes, fading in and out of each other as though they were memories just passing by. Perhaps they were. He knew that Milah, of all people, would understand that music could tell stories. Most surprisingly, though, was how she'd drawn him. He looked absolutely lost in his own world, a small smile playing across his lips.

"I realized just now that it was actually ridiculously stupid for me to ask to trade; I can't read music," Milah laughed after a moment. "Of course, your writing is very fine, but I know nothing of the content."

"Milah, I believe you could make a living as an artist. This is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," Killian murmured, still engrossed in the images. His heart felt full at the thought of anyone creating anything something so wonderful and so personal for him. It was the greatest gift he had ever received, except for his violin.

Milah bit her lip and smiled. "I told you it was a masterpiece."

Killian could have stared at the picture for days, but Milah soon lost patience.

"Music! Now," she insisted, plopping his pages of notes unceremoniously on top of her sketch.

"Fine," Killian sighed. "I'm afraid that I wrote it for an instrument in addition to voice, so I'll only be able to give you the melody."

He took a deep breath and started to hum.

"Stop! Where are the words?" Milah interrupted.

"The vocal part is just humming," Killian replied, rolling his eyes.

He began again and Milah listened attentively, eyes sparkling.

"I love it," she announced. "I do believe that may be a masterpiece on its own, even without the instrument. I like the humming quite a lot, actually. It's quite mysterious, isn't it? Or intimate, or something."

Killian blushed slightly at her word choice-

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>Emma snorted.<p>

Killian paused before slowly turning to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't believe that for one second."

"What? That I wrote music that someone valued?" Killian exclaimed in mock-outrage.

"No, that you could ever be that innocent!" Emma clarified, amused.

"Two hundred years is a long time, Swan," Killian smirked. "I would hope that I wasn't the same at fourteen or fifteen."

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>"I might have to think more about it to give it a better review," Milah finally decided. "I feel like I could hear it over and over again and still find something new."<p>

"That's more to do with your mind than my music," Killian countered.

Milah shrugged, but a small grin spread across her face at the compliment.

"Killian?" She said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

Milah looked at the pages of music again, a small frown creasing her face. "Perhaps it's just my mind layering things onto the music again, but I swear that the song is full of longing as well. I long to see the sun again... I like it down here very much, of course, but do you think... might it be safe... could I go outside for a little bit, do you think? Surely I wouldn't run into my uncle just on a brief walk, would I?"

Killian frowned thoughtfully. "It's up to you. I think the chances are quite slim, though."

"Good."

Milah was dragging him upstairs by the hand before he could say anything else. The second she felt morning sunshine on her face, a radiant smile drifted lazily across her face.

"Come on," Milah said, yanking him towards the market.

It was the market's busiest hour, but Milah seemed thrilled to be around people again rather than bothered by their sheer numbers. After a moment, Milah turned to him with a wicked glint in her eye.

"Perhaps we should steal something, just for old time's sake," she suggested.

Killian wrinkled his forehead. "Why? I have money, and I can earn some more by playing."

"But stealing is fun," Milah countered.

"Not for the people being stolen from," Killian pointed out. Sure, doing something dangerous was thrilling and even satisfying if the merchant seemed like enough of a jerk, but his conscience (which sounded suspiciously like Liam) was firmly against stealing when it wasn't necessary.

Milah pouted, but perked up slightly when she saw a merchant selling jewelry. She slipped off without another word, leaving Killian to look around for a somewhat clear area for him to play his violin.

Of course, he saw something else entirely.

A man was pointing very obviously in Milah's direction, conversing seriously with several men around him.

For a moment, time seemed to still as Killian's stomach dropped. There was Milah, blissfully unaware of the situation as she admired the various wares of the jewelry merchant. Then, there were the men, now moving forward in a determined fashion.

"Milah!" Killian shouted in warning.

The noise of the market was so intense that Milah just barely heard her name. She lifted her head and glanced around. After a moment in which she saw neither Killian nor her uncle and his companions, she turned back to the jewelry with a shrug.

Killian began to shove his way through the crowds towards her, ignoring both angry shouts and the scent of unwashed human bodies. As he ran, all he could think about was how _stupid_ they had been. Of course, if her uncle had tracked her to the city, the market would be the obvious place for him to wait for her to appear. Everyone went to the market at least occasionally, and it was well known that it was a wonderful place for any fugitive to hide in plain sight. However, if the hunter was patient enough and good enough at looking, that plan could backfire very quickly.

"Milah! Run!" Killian yelled again, once he was closer.

This time, Milah heard him. She turned and saw her uncle, and her face drained of all colour. Quickly, she turned and started to sprint away. Killian ran after her, but her uncle and his friends were closer, larger, and faster. There were too many people in his way, and no matter how much he pushed and yelled, the bodies just seemed to multiply. In the end, all he could do was watch as the men closed in around her, grabbed her in spite of her kicking and screaming, and started to pull her away. By the time he'd escaped the crowds, she was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

Let me just begin with a sincere apology for the delay. Not to give excuses, but I've been having some health issues in addition to a large workload. Anyway, here this is (finally) and I will make a sincere effort to get the next one up much sooner!

Thanks again to all of you who have stuck with this story. I appreciate all of you very much!

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Killian first tried running away only a month later.<p>

Helena noticed his missing belongings and her missing daughter within minutes. In total, his escape attempt lasted ten minutes, after which Killian was dragged back into the house and severely punished by Connor while Helena grimly overlooked the process.

He tried again a few nights later. Unfortunately, he discovered that Helena was not, in fact, a heavy sleeper. Apparently, the long hours she slept were entirely by choice rather than nature. It was a foolish mistake to make, but Killian could at least partially blame his failure on the fact that he was moving considerably slower after his latest beating.

After that, Killian decided that he needed to spend some more time planning before his next attempt. Of course, he also needed to wait until he would be physically capable of running again.

With all of his setbacks, it wasn't until two months later that he finally managed to escape, and only then with careful calculation.

The first decision he made was that he had to go alone. Unfortunately, Lyanna slowed him down considerably, and it was impossible to take Lyanna anywhere without Helena noticing. With any luck, her possessiveness would keep her daughter out of harm's way while Killian earned enough money to support her on his own. Then, of course, he would come back and take her away when neither his aunt nor his uncle expected it.

When Killian told Lyanna, she did not take it well.

Immediately, her eyes filled with tears and she started shaking her head rapidly.

"I want to go with you," she mouthed, throwing her arms around him and latching on.

"I'll come back as soon as I can, I promise," he murmured, gently extracting himself from the little girl's grip and holding her hands in his own.

She continued to shake her head and stare at the floor. A pang of guilt ran through Killian at the sight.

"Look, love... we can't stay here forever," he said tiredly. "Your father gets worse all the time. We have to do whatever is going to give us our best chance in the long run, even if it means that we might be apart for a while."

Lyanna threw her arms around Killian and, as silent as ever, let out all the grief and frustration that a child of her age could possibly have within her. Killian had no doubts that she had a great deal more than most children her age.

In the following days, Lyanna clung to him more than ever, which had Helena constantly glaring at him suspiciously. Connor was rarely home lately for reasons that remained his own, which meant that there was nothing to distract the three remaining family members from the tension between them.

The night before Killian left the house for good, Helena summoned him over to the stove to stir the latest vile creation that she deemed fit to describe as "dinner". As he stirred, she just studied his face unashamedly.

"I know you're thinking of running again," she began finally in a hard voice.

Killian didn't even acknowledge the fact that she had spoken.

"Lovely. Now I have a representative of both the dumb and the deaf in my household," she snapped, throwing her hands up in disgust. "Well, I know you can hear me, so listen well. I am not letting you leave this house, understood? If you leave, we will hunt you down. If I have to tell Connor to break your legs into tiny pieces to keep you here, so be it, but I _will_ keep you here."

Killian finally spared his aunt a glance. Her eyes were narrowed to tiny slits and her cheeks were flushed. Killian wondered vaguely if she'd lost her mind, not that he could blame her if she had. He could see faint bruising around her neck in the shape of fingers. Still, he was finding it harder and harder to pity her when she redirected Connor's anger so skillfully to her nephew at every available opportunity.

"Yes, I imagine it would be difficult for you to actually have to earn money yourself, or take care of your child, or to-"

A sharp slap silenced Killian. He shot his aunt a murderous look but didn't say anything else. Lyanna watched with huge eyes from the corner.

That night, after Helena went to bed, Lyanna clung to her cousin desperately, knowing of his plan to leave in the early morning.

"She won't hurt you," Killian whispered, stroking her hair gently. "She loves you, even if she doesn't say so."

Lyanna didn't reply.

Neither of them slept that night.

The next morning, Lyanna clung to his shirt as he put his few belongings into his violin case. Once he was done, he knelt down so that he was at Lyanna's eye level. She stared at him with large, watery blue eyes. Her lower lip started to tremble.

With a sigh, Killian pulled her gently into a hug, wondering for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing. His gut twisted at the thought of her feeling alone and unloved. Still, Uncle Connor had been growing more and more violent. Killian wouldn't have left if he wasn't concerned enough that Lyanna would be left alone with her parents even if he stayed. As it was, it was no stretch of the imagination to believe that his uncle was capable of murder, whether it was accidental or on purpose. This way, at least Killian and Lyanna stood a chance of survival.

"I'll be gone for a couple of months at most, I promise," Killian whispered, wiping away Lyanna's tears tenderly. "I swear on my life, Lyanna, I will come back for you."

Lyanna nodded. "I love you," she mouthed.

"And I you."

With a last look at his cousin, Killian took a deep breath and sprinted out the door.

Developing a plan had been easy, really. With this time of year came the inevitable bout of plague that hit the poorest communities hardest. Early each Monday morning, the wagon came to collect the bodies that had died that week. Killian had timed it so that he could catch it just as it was leaving.

"Stop!" Came Helena's shrill voice from his door as he chased after the wagon, already picking up speed. He wasn't surprised that she'd heard him; based on yesterday's speech, he imagined that she'd been on alert for any sign of him running off. She caught his arm halfway down the street, but he elbowed her hard in the ribs until she let go and then kept running. He climbed on the wagon carefully, leaving his aunt to try to catch up. Finally, when she realized she couldn't, she collapsed helplessly in the dusty road, her blonde hair in disarray.

"Auntie loves you, Killian," she called after him, her voice choked with emotion.

Killian shot her a look of disgust before clambering more securely onto the pile of bodies.

That was the last time he saw both his aunt and his cousin, and both images would be burned in his mind forever. While he'd have thought that the image of Lyanna would torture him most, it ended up being the image of his aunt. She had looked as young and fragile as her daughter, and utterly defeated. When the wagon turned the corner, she was still huddled in a ball in the street, her head bowed as though in mourning, tears watering the dry road.

* * *

><p>The Present<p>

* * *

><p>"I should have asked her to come with me," Killian admitted. "Perhaps if I'd given her another chance-" his voice cracked slightly and he trailed off. His face had regained the faraway, sad expression that Emma was beginning to grow used to.<p>

"You didn't know."

"She definitely wanted to escape from my uncle, but I doubted that she wanted the responsibility of two children," Killian said, eyes darting around in torment. "Still, perhaps she did. I never gave her the chance-"

"You did when she tried to kill herself," reasoned Emma, trying hard to push away the pity flooding her. She knew that Killian wouldn't appreciate it.

"She was little more than a child herself; of course she didn't know what to do. I think I woefully misjudged her," he confessed.

"Well, you were a kid too," Emma said gently.

Killian laughed unhappily. "Yes, I was, wasn't I?"

* * *

><p>The Past<p>

* * *

><p>Killian extricated himself from the bodies as soon as he was out of the city. After that, he kept off of the road and ran to his next destination. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but fear kept him moving quickly until he reached the prison.<p>

He stared up at it in awe. His mother had never really spoken about her time in prison, which meant that Killian hadn't been able to fully picture it. It was much bigger than he had anticipated and far more secure. He felt an odd chill run up and down his spine as he looked at the fortress of stone. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought that the air felt chillier the closer he got to the building, as if it were sucking the life out of the air around it.

Fortunately, it took very little time for Ciarra to venture outside.

It had been perhaps a year since the war had ended, but she had shot up at least several inches. Nevertheless, Killian recognized her instantly.

"Killian?!" Ciarra gasped in surprise when she took in the boy sitting just off of the road.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite sort-of cousin," Killian said, plastering a grin onto his face.

With a quick, nervous glance over her shoulder, Ciarra ran up to him and threw her arms around him in a warm hug.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded, pulling away.

Killian swallowed. Here was the difficult part. "Well..." he hesitated, scratching nervously behind his ear. "I knew that you still lived with your... um... father. And I was sort of wondering if he might possibly need an assistant. Or... another one, I suppose," he nodded towards his friend.

Really, it had been the perfect idea. This way, he could stay close to the city while still being out of his uncle's reach (unless Connor decided to try to break into a prison, which he highly doubted would happen). He could earn money and be back with Lyanna in no time.

Unfortunately, as was to become a recurring theme, his idea that was perfect in theory ended up being less perfect in practice.

Ciarra paled. "Oh, Killian... I don't think so."

She looked around nervously, as if afraid she was being watched, before pulling Killian into the shadows.

"Look. I'd really love to help you, but something's happened-"

"What's wrong?" Killian interrupted with barely suppressed panic. "Are you alright?"

Ciarra nodded quickly. "Yes, I'm fine, mostly. But there's a slight problem. He sort of, well... quit drinking long enough to realize that perhaps my story was a little bit flawed. He was never very fond of me in the first place, but it's gotten worse and worse ever since I returned here from the war. He doesn't like to let me leave, even if I'm running errands for him. I heard him talking to one of his colleagues the other night, and I think he's planning to get rid of me."

"To throw you out?" Killian clarified, eyebrows knitting together.

Ciarra shuddered. "Worse. I think he wants to sell me into prostitution."

A heavy silence fell over the two friends. Killian's mind immediately flashed to Helena and his aunt's own bitter words about her past. Even though he knew it was illogical, Killian had a feeling that Ciarra becoming a whore would somehow turn her into an identical copy of his aunt. He looked at her thoughtfully, his insides twisting painfully. She looked incredibly young and innocent, but how would she look in a decade? He had to force himself to clear his mind and stop imagining her as a bitter woman incapable of loving her own child.

"I've been thinking of running away," Ciarra admitted finally in a hushed tone. "Is that what you're doing?"

Killian rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Well, yes. I was sort of planning on running to here, but I suppose I have to change my plan now."

"To what?" Ciarra prompted, hugging herself in a way that made her look very small.

"I don't know. I... suppose I might go North. My mother's family is still there. Perhaps they'll be able to help me," Killian thought out loud.

Ciarra bit her lip worriedly. "We'd best hope they're like our grandfather."

Her cousin raised his eyebrows. "We?"

"Yes, I'm coming along," Ciarra clarified, shooting him a look that left no room for argument. "Unless you want to sentence me to a life of prostitution. But, even then, I'd still follow you. You came here, and now you'll be hard pressed to get rid of me."

"Good," Killian grinned. "Traveling alone could be frightfully dull."

Ciarra dropped her hard demeanour for one of relief. "Let's go now, then, before that idiot jailer comes searching for me."

Killian nodded, and the two turned towards the road without sparing the prison or the now distant city a single glance.

* * *

><p>"Oh, <em>God<em>, I'm knackered," muttered Ciarra several weeks of walking later. "You know what I want? A bath. I lovely bath. Filled with lavender-"

Killian rolled his eyes up to the heavens for a moment, seriously wondering what the odds were that she would pick that scent over every other possibility.

"And a hot meal. And blankets filled with feathers that are warm enough that I could burrow into them and die and be perfectly content forever-" Ciarra continued to rattle on, oblivious to Killian's reactions.

"We must be at least somewhat close," Killian interrupted, staring at the mountain peaks looming larger and larger on the horizon.

"Yes, we just need to climb a bloody mountain, isn't that right?" Ciarra complained.

"You know, it's a good thing you came with me. I bet that you'd be a bloody awful prostitute if you complained this much. They'd probably throw you out within days," Killian teased with a smirk.

"Clearly that's the only reason I came along."

"Clearly."

The pair fell into a cheerful silence.

"The beds might be more comfortable, though, wouldn't you think?" Ciarra suggested some time later.

"I've no idea," scoffed Killian.

Eventually, Killian regretted teasing his friend about her lack of suitability for prostitution, because that was just the start of her musings about her former career possibility. Several days later, once they had actually reached the mountains and were partway up, Ciarra was still bringing up the subject.

"Do you not think I'm pretty? Is that why you think I'd be an awful prostitute?"

"Shh," Killian hissed. "I think I heard something."

Immediately, all teasing was forgotten as Ciarra moved subconsciously closer to Killian. After a few seconds of listening, the two exchanged a nervous glance. Those were definitely footsteps.

The two waited nervously until several soldiers rounded the bend in the road. The soldiers looked more surprised to see the teenagers than they were to see them.

"What brings you up this road?" Asked the one in the front gruffly.

"We're on our way to the de Clare castle," Killian explained, attempting to look taller than he actually was. "Are we close?"

The guard nodded. "Indeed. We're a patrol from the castle. You're an hour away on foot at most."

Killian nodded his thanks, stepping to the side of the path and pulling Ciarra with him by her elbow.

As soon as they were gone, she groaned. "Uphill?"

Killian nodded. His heart was beating too quickly for him to concentrate on speaking. This was it. This was perhaps where he should have gone years ago when his father had abandoned him. These were family members he could trust, he was certain.

When he first saw the castle, Killian was speechlessly in awe of its beauty. It had been carved into the mountain spectacularly, so that it looked almost as if it were something grown out of the stone rather than made by man.

It took hours of waiting to be allowed to see the lord of the castle, but, finally, Killian was allowed into the main hall.

Seated in a tall, stone throne was a man who was perhaps in his mid-forties, although his greying dark hair made him look much older. His eyes were dark and intense, narrowing in on the children immediately with curiosity. Killian suddenly became very conscious of every particle of road dust on his body and his slightly ragged clothes.

"My Lord," Killian said with a respectful bow. Ciarra made to copy his movement before remembering that she was supposed to curtsy. The man raised an eyebrow in amusement as she fought to regain her balance.

"What can I do for you, lad?" He asked in a lilting accent that reminded Killian achingly of his mother's.

"I was hoping to seek your help. You may have heard of my mother, Christine Crewe-"

Before Killian could continue, the man had stood up with a deep frown.

"And you've come for my assistance, no doubt?" Asked the man coldly, changing his persona so completely that Killian was almost certain that the welcoming man he had first seen on the throne had been replaced.

Killian nodded. "Yes, my lord. You see, my parents are both dead and now my cousin, the granddaughter of Jonathan Crewe, is in danger. As for my brother, I've no idea where he is, but we all live under the threat-"

"Of the Larkins," Lord de Clare said angrily. "Yes, I know of them. They are no friends of ours."

"Or ours," Killian agreed.

The lord raised his eyebrow again. "No? If my spies can be believed, you are half-Larkin, are you not?"

Killian felt his heart sink, but he nodded. "Not by choice, my lord," he added boldly.

"Still, no Larkin is welcome here," Lord de Clare said dismissively. "I'm afraid I cannot give you what you seek."

Killian stared at the man - his last hope - in disbelief. "You can't? But we're your family! We share the same blood-"

"The blood of a bastard diluted further by Larkin blood is hardly comparable to the blood a de Clare," the lord said coolly, waving his hand at them in a gesture that clearly wished to hurry along their retreat.

"So you would condemn us to death? For all I know, my brother could be in prison right now because of the Larkins. Can't you see that we're on your side?" Shouted Killian, attempting to jerk his arm free from the soldiers now pulling him and Ciarra out the door.

Lord de Clare's eyes flashed dangerously. "From what I hear, your brother is now working for the Southern king's navy. It is quite clear where your loyalties lie, bastard."

The doors shut with a crash, but the guards didn't release the children until they had escorted them out of the castle entirely. Ciarra tentatively put her hand on Killian's shoulder in an attempt at comfort, but Killian shrugged her off and instead threw stones off of the mountain until his arms were sore and his fingers were bleeding.

"How can he do this to us?" He finally demanded, wheeling around to face an exhausted looking Ciarra.

"Because he has money and a title," Ciarra said with a shrug, seeming - to Killian - ridiculously calm and accepting of the fact.

"And Liam is working for the king now?"

"You knew he was in the navy. What did you think he would be doing?" Ciarra pointed out.

Killian shook his head. He had no idea. He'd always known what joining the navy would mean, but it was as if his mind had refused to accept the idea until it was forcefully shoved down his throat.

"It's just not fair," Killian muttered, finally collapsing onto the rocks off of the path.

Ciarra nodded in agreement. "No, but nothing has ever been fair. Why should that change now?"

Killian could think of plenty of reasons why it _should_ change. Unfortunately, destiny seemed determined to ignore his logic.

Of course, destiny had proved time and time again that she was no friend of Killian Jones, and, ironically enough, would continue to do so for hundreds of years. As a result, having fate kick him down once again was not a significant event for him. However, there was one aspect of this event that marked it as unusual.

This particular rejection marked the beginning of the slow decline of Killian's hope.


End file.
